1

VOL. 7 (2022)
EDITOR’S NOTE
Pelikula: A Journal of Philippine Cinema and Moving Image is published TABLE OF CONTENTS
annually by the University of the Philippines Film Institute. It broadly
covers national and regional perspectives on Philippine cinema and
publishes academic articles, opinion pieces, reviews, interviews, and
visual essays. LONG TAKES The seventh volume of Pelikula is engaged in the labor of
remembering.
04 Revisiting Apocalypse Now: Hollywood in a Time and Place of
Philippine Martial Law
178 Filming Aswang: A Postmortem
Alyx Ayn Arumpac
EDITORIAL TEAM ADVISORY BOARD Christine Bacareza Balance The recent turn of events in this national election year evidences
what happens when people do not remember their past. However, as
220 On the Challenges of Budding Filmmakers
we have also witnessed, this is no mere forgetfulness by some. Neither
Patrick F. Campos
Editor-In-Chief
Erlinda Alburo
Joyce Arriola
22 Trans-ing Cosmopolitanism:
Precarious Passages and Transgressive Intimacies in Isabel
Dan Pascual and Kenneth Luna
is it a matter of minor inaccuracies in recollecting events. We know
Yason Banal Sandoval’s Lingua Franca that collective and individual memories are contested; structural
José S. Buenconsejo ANGLES
Tito Quiling, Jr. José B. Capino
Carlos M. Piocos III
143 The Guilty Settler in Arbi Barbarona’s The Highest Peak
challenges are before us. The systems we rely on to foster historical
Louise Jashil Sonido Teddy Co memory are broken. And political dynasties, well-oiled machinery,
Associate Editors Bliss Cua Lim 38 We Choose our Vehicles:
Mapping First-person Cinema in the Filipino Diaspora
John Bengan
appealing invariably to our need and desire for national unity, are
Sari Dalena manipulating and manufacturing social memory through media and
Sarah Villareal Clodualdo del Mundo, Jr. Adrian Ellis Alarilla
148 Of Drones, Walls, and Face Masks:
Three Short Films of Glenn Barit cultural production.
Artist and Designer Nick Deocampo

Loren Evangelista Agaloos

Karl M. Gaspar
Eli Guieb III
65 The Vietnam War in the Philippines: David R. Corpuz
Historical memory is fundamental to shaping our social identities
Interrogating the Film Location Selection of Oliver Stone’s Platoon
and imagining our future, but it is continually reshaped in the present
Marianne Freya Nono
Copy Editors
Eloisa May Hernandez
Grace Javier-Alfonso
John Adrianfer Atienza
153 "Regional Filmmakers in the Time of the Pandemic
and Moving Forward political moment. It is to this task that Pelikula 7 turns, marking in
Eileen Legaspi-Ramirez these pages the atrocities of the bloody regime that had just ended
Angela Chaves Ed Lejano 95 Displaced: Diaspora and OFW Cinema
John Tawasil
Demie Dangla
and leaving a document to help ensure that we will not forget, as our
Adrian Dollente Mendizabal Gerard Rey Lico
Editorial Staff Shirley Lua artists, photographers, and filmmakers have braved danger and trauma
REACTION SHOTS
Bienvenido Lumbera 108 The Philippine Film Animation Industry and Its History of Captivity in the last six years, so we would not.
Pol Torrente
Cover Designer
Joseph Palis
Soledad Reyes
Roland Cartagena
75 The Erotics of Empire and Haunting Tales from the Past
Nick Deocampo We also recognize that remembering is hard and forgetting is
Nicanor G. Tiongson
121 Produced by Jesusa Sonora-Poe: much easier to do. Thus, as we prepare for the long battle ahead for
Delfin Tolentino
Rolando B. Tolentino
(Re)Introducing Rosas Productions and Susan Roces, the Producer
Gershom C. Chua
167 Resbak as Response: Art, Inventory, and Video
Cocoy Lumbao, Jr.
the integrity of our historical memory, we look back to a deeper
Tito Genova Valiente history, to the violence of empire and the broken systems it had left
behind as its legacy, leaving many dead and many more scattered, lest
200 Motor Only Sync: Furball, Inc. and the Music Video as Moving
Image from 2000 to 2010
182 Bad News
Sarge Lacuesta
we mistake that the struggles we face today are recent.
Mariah Reodica
The volume also straddles the subject of collective and individual
185 Re-viewing Brocka
A Review of Jose Capino's Martial Law Melodrama:
memory, featuring a range of approaches to and performative writings
SHORT TAKES Lino Brocka's Cinema Politics expressing identity, place, mobility, and becoming in cinema studies.
In this way, the volume explores the spatiality of memory and history,
14 The Celine Archive:
Remaking the Decolonial Feminist Documentary
(University of California Press, 2020)
Laurence Marvin S. Castillo primarily mediated memory and history, either through critiques of
José B. Capino films and moving-image works about the diaspora, migrant workers,
197 Tracing the Testimony of the Politics of Art in and the displaced or through the reflections of scholars and critics
ABOUT THE COVER 33 What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted?
Diasporic Melancholia and Geographies of Care in Islands
Scenes Reclaimed
Gian Carla Agbisit
who meditate upon their relationship with media.
A painting by Danilo Dalena, which forms part of his storyboard for Sari Lluch
Dalena and Camilla Benolirao Griggers’s Memories of a Forgotten War (2001) Joseph Palis We look to how cinema and moving images have anchored our
remembrances. We write to posterity about the events and processes
TALKING HEADS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT 47 And Also Yours… of our current film culture as we move away from the pandemic
Danilo Dalena, Teddy Co, Adjani Arumpac, Rob Rownd, Fernando Paragas,
Carolina Fusilier & Miko Revereza’s El Lado Quieto
Aaron E. Hunt
210 On Survival Mode: Film Production during the Pandemic
Chrissy Cruz Ustaris
years—about bubble productions that occasioned long hoped-for
Jack Nario, Icho Pascual, Malou Arandia, Kriz Gazmen, Jane Tenorio, changes in industrial practices, online film festivals that brought films
Kara Magsanoc Alikpala, Juan Martin Magsanoc, Yannah Justiniani, from the regions to a broader audience, students engaged in fearless
Lynda Garcia, Gilbeys Sardea, Mae Caralde, Seymour Barros Sanchez, Chuck 59 From the Edges to the Center:
The Philippine-American Colonial Experience in ARCHIVE political filmmaking, and others.
Gutierrez, Coreen Jimenez, Robert Rock, Tani Cohen
Balangiga: Howling Wilderness
Cecille N. Baello
51 Mementos from the Making of Memories of a Forgotten War
Danilo Dalena & Sari Dalena
Our cover, designed by Pol Torrente using artwork by Danilo
FAIR USE POLICY Dalena, honors the memory of the departed that have been martyred
and massacred by damnable regimes in history, recent and long ago. It
This journal is published for educational use only, not for profit, and
distributed free of charge. Copyright disclaimer under sections 184 and
88 A Rope, A Chain, A Knife: First Cuts for Filipina DH
Lara Acuin
79 Finding Elena
ARCHIVO1984 & Wilfredo Pascual also signifies our present disposition, as we are yet near the ground but
185 of the Intellectual Property Code of the Philippines (Republic Act no longer at rest and have taken off, geared up for what lies ahead. The
No. 8293) of 1997, allowance is made for “fair use” for purposes such as
criticism, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, education, and research. 102 From the Modern Hero to Heroes of Their Own Lives:
171 //logfiles colors invite our eyes to rest on the image, to linger in thought, but
Effort has been exerted to cite all sources.
The Filipina Domestic Worker in Hong Kong RESBAK & Eya Beldia the movement is dynamic and beckons us to move, now.
Purple Romero

188 A Compassionate Lucidity: Work on the journal is continuous but likewise faces many
Copyright © 2022 by UP Film Institute
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
135 Sagip Pelikula...A Journal
Leo P. Katigbak
Recent Political Works by Filipino Students
Patrick F. Campos
hurdles, so we look forward to our readers’ active support in the
coming days. Finally, we thank the UP Diliman - Office for Initiatives
means without the written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.
in Culture and the Arts for extending help to complete this volume.
For inquiries, send us a message at pelikula.updiliman@up.edu.ph 161 Remediating Revolution
Adjani Guerrero Arumpac
www.pelikulajournal.com —Patrick F. Campos

2 3
 LONG TAKE
Apocalypse Child opening sequence (Arkeofilms, 2015). Image used with permission from filmmakers
I
. June 2019. I am in the Philippines for a research
trip working on my next book project. Taking full
advantage of being “in-country,” I decide to travel
up to Baler, Aurora, one of the infamous shoot locations for
Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979). I choose Baler
over Pagsanjan Falls, another major shoot location, mainly
because I am inspired by the Philippine indie film Apocalypse
Child (2016). Directed by Mario Cornejo and co-written by
Cornejo and Monster Jimenez, the film centers around ever-
shifting love triangles between Ford, a surfer-philosopher
and supposed love child of the American director, and his
childhood best friend Rich, the son of the town’s former mayor
and now a lawyer running for Philippine Senate. Apocalypse
Child paints the Vietnam War film’s mark upon the sleepy
beachside town as indelible. It piques my interest to see what
remains of the canonical film and its production history.
I arrive in Baler as the sun is rising on June 13,
2019—the day after Philippine Independence Day. Thanks
to an overnight deluxe Joy Bus that departs Cubao, a central
transportation hub in Manila, the 4.5-hour trip is an extremely
efficient alternative to the usual 8-9 hour local bus ride that
others might take (and that we unfortunately end up stuck
on during our return ride to Manila). Arriving at the Aurora
bus terminal, we are immediately greeted by tricycle drivers
ready to take us to our respective final destinations. Our bus
mainly consists of vacationing Mañilenos and ex-pat travelers,
therefore our tricycles all end up in the same resort/tourist
area that lines the Sabang beachfront. Upon checking into
our hotel, I realize my Taglish will not survive very long here.
In this northern province of Luzon, a more formal Tagalog is
being spoken, complete with “po sila.”
Upon waking up from an early morning nap, I am
greeted by the unrelenting summer sun reflecting upon the
4 5
beach’s white sand. Looking out onto Aurora Bay, I am struck
by the ease of superimposing previous cinematic images—from
both Apocalypse films—onto the landscape of this new place.
Looking out of my hotel room balcony, it is easy to “see” the
famous “Flight of the Valkyries” scene. Overlooking the beach
and Bay, it is easy to “view” the landscape through the eyes of
Apocalypse Child’s characters. These guest views from a second-
floor balcony approximate the previous film’s vantage points,
underscoring the relationship between film and tourism.
As Hollywood legend has it (and as Cornejo and
Jimenez’s film plot echoes), Baler’s tourist-driven economy
of surfing owes its beginnings to Coppola and his film crew.
On the final day of our trip, we decide to avail of our hotel’s
requisite surf lesson. A few minutes before 7 am, we spot an
extraordinarily fit and tan Filipino local effortlessly performing
pistol squats and pull-ups, his real age only given away by the
wrinkles around his smiling eyes. Mang Rodel, we later find
out, is a spry 52-year-old. Calculating his age, we ask him what
he knows or remembers about the Apocalypse Now film shoot.
When he was 15, Mang Rodel divulged, he worked as a janitor
at the local elementary school that served as a storehouse
for Apocalypse Now’s film equipment, props, and costuming.
He remembers the production’s stock of full-size wooden
surfboards, a factoid continuously cited by online bloggers and
journalists. But he also remembers how the production crew
left no surfboards behind. Contrary to Hollywood and internet
lore, Mang Rodel informed us that surfing existed a good seven
years before Coppola and his film crew’s arrival.1 It was a half
Filipino/half Hawaiian surfer and Australians, such as Richie
Cleaver (current owner of Baler’s Saltwater Lodge), that had
brought surfboards and surfing to Baler, training locals such
as Raul Tolentino to surf and leaving behind the surfboards
that helped the cultural practice to proliferate. On the walls of
Tolentino’s Kubli Bistro in Baler, visitors find black & white
 LONG TAKE
View from second floor hotel balcony (or, in the words of Lourd de Veyra, “pasok Wagner”).
Photo by author
surfing photographs that pre-date Apocalypse Now’s production.
These photographs and Mang Rodel’s story now
require that I imagine Baler differently. With my attention
turned to the material realities of producing Apocalypse Now—
the labor of creating its mimetic/onscreen representations—I
want to think beyond and against Hollywood and Coppola’s
narratives (and structures of feeling) about the film and instead
toward local stories. Against what Coppola and his crew might
want us to believe, Baler and, by extension, the Philippines
were not terra nullius or mere landscape/obstacle. These places
are more than mere substitutes or stand-ins. Instead, they
are vibrant places shimmering with their own lore, histories,
and politics. Shot during a time of Philippine Martial Law,
Apocalypse Now’s production history brings into relief the
conditions of possibility for its making—US militarism, a
long-standing Philippine film industry, and former President
Ferdinand Marcos’s support of the film project. Attuned to
these realities, a focus on the film’s production history directs
our attention toward Marcos’s Martial Law practices and
policies of military infrastructure, tourism development, refugee
humanitarianism, and indigenous groups’ incorporation into
the nation-state. With more first-person stories and narratives
from Filipino artists, film production staff, and everyday people
who worked on this now-canonical US film, with a sense of
their feelings as laborers, locals, lookers-on, we might see the
world of Apocalypse Now from their vantage points.2 Doing so,
we reimagine this iconic film as one produced as much by the
practices and realities of Marcosian martial rule as those of
Hollywood.
This itinerant essay is my initial attempt to think
through the approaches and frameworks through which
Apocalypse Now has been studied and understood—Coppola
and Hollywood’s as well as Asian American studies. From
there, it considers what a framing of Apocalypse Now as a
Martial Law production has to teach us not only about
elements of life under Martial Law but also how we might
6 7
Mang Rodel and Gary Gabisan post-surf lesson (2019).
Photo by author
approach the Philippines differently. In the end, we will return
to Baler and meditate on how places—their facts and fictions—
lead us to different methods in our ongoing study of Martial
Law histories.
II. May 1979. Francis Ford Coppola famously
declared at the Cannes Film Festival press conference for
Apocalypse Now: “This wasn’t just a film about Vietnam. This
was Vietnam.” Like the US military presence during the
war, the film’s production was also “in a jungle, (there were)
too many of us, too much money and too much equipment.”
Coppola’s statement was made even more ironic because the
film’s headquarters in Baler “had much of the ‘social realism’
of a small-scale military base…Housing some 700 foreigners,
the enclave was guarded by Philippine constabulary troops
against potential ‘trespassers’—namely, NPA forces rumored
to be in the region”3 In the end, the film consisted of 238
days of principal shooting at a final cost of US $20 million
(ironically, the same amount that the United States paid Spain
in 1898 for the ‘transfer’ of the Philippines from one colonial
set of hands to the next). Through “sustained metaphor” and
“extratextual irony,” the Hollywood film’s production history
and location shoot served as “the perfect allegory for the
American quagmire.” Unlike what we might assume about the
well-oiled machine of Hollywood, this film shot on location
required much improvisation and thinking on its toes amidst
conditions both uncontrollable and exploitative. akin to other
“runaway productions” made in the Third World with a nation’s
labor, land, and resources. Apocalypse Now’s production history
invoked both long-standing colonial structures of feeling and
imperial formations of wartime.4
LONG TAKE
Baler Museum. Doña Aurora reigns supreme (2019). Photos by author
Hot off the heels of filming The Godfather (1971)—a
film that pulled Coppola out of the financial hole with Warner
Bros. while also making his mark as a film director—and its
sequel (in 1974), Coppola, according to Cowie, “felt confident
that (his team of friends and technicians who had just made
The Godfather Part II in six locations without studio interference
and felt confident that they could tackle Apocalypse Now on a
grand scale.”5 As his wife Eleanor recalls, “There came a point
after Godfather II when Francis talked about not wanting to
make yet another intense film in dark rooms. He just wanted
to get out in the sunlight and make a cowboy movie and
action-adventure movie. I think Francis saw Apocalypse Now as
a big, outdoor opera and he thought he would be in his shorts,
run around in the jungle, swim and make a film that was far
from the kinds of issues and dynamics that he had previously
worked on.”6 Coppola gathered a production team consisting
of his closest associates who had helped him complete his
last three films—Fred Roos, casting and line producer; Gray
Frederickson, who “excelled at finding locations—and then
dealing with all the problems they raised” and was also fluent in
Italian (essential when filming with Coppola’s majority Italian
crew); Dean Tavoularis, art director; and Vittorio Storaro, a
cinematographer that Coppola had met on the set of Bernardo
Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris (1972). Coppola raised $13
million for the film by selling in advance the distribution rights
to foreign countries and to United Artists in the United States.
This allowed him ownership and control of the film but also
financial responsibility for any amount over its budget.
Apocalypse Now faced a number of production
obstacles due to natural as well as human-made causes. In
the early days of the film’s preproduction, there were casting
issues – first, when Harvey Keitel was originally cast (and
then “fired”) in the role of Captain Willard, later replaced
by Martin Sheen. Later on, near the end of the film’s shoot,
Marlon Brando arrived on the film’s set 200 pounds over his
previous weight, not having read the script. Martin Sheen
suffered a heart attack after shooting the film’s intense opening
scenes in a hotel room. The military helicopters Marcos and
his government had promised often had to be called back to
fight “Communist insurgents” in the country (mainly the New
People’s Army/NPA and Moro National Liberation Front/
MNLF). In addition, a particularly strong monsoon season
became another element the production had to battle. At first,
Coppola tried to incorporate the natural phenomena into the
film—arguing that monsoons hit Vietnam, so “let’s try to keep
filming.” But, after realizing the scale of the destruction after
Typhoon Olga (Dading), the director and his cast were forced
to move operations from Baler to Pagsanjan, where both local
and visiting production crew members rebuilt certain sets,
including Kurtz’s compound, over the course of two months.
The natural disaster cost the film’s production budget a million
dollars. To make matters even worse, Coppola’s film and John
Milius’s screenplay lacked an ending, the final scenes of the
now landmark film depending upon hours of conversations
between Brando & Coppola, improvised sequences with
Brando on-set, and finally, the serendipitous occasion of Ifugao
extras performing a cañao ritual one night, which provided a
dramatic frame for the film’s final montage.
The physical conditions of filming in the Philippines
were difficult. As production designer Dean Tavoularis noted,
there was a disparity between “those pictures, you know, of a
tropical paradise” and the reality of tropical weather, housing
conditions, and limited food. The climate was “always humid,
it was always hot. It was either raining and hot or not raining
and hot.”7 In turn, the production’s living conditions were, as
Frederickson notes, “not ideal,” the only respite being that the
cast and crew “every two or three weeks (we) could go into
town and get a nice hotel room and have hot water and decent
food.” For both crew members, food options were limited and
therefore unlikable. Even though they had “set up (their) own
 LONG TAKE
kitchen,” the crew “lived on spaghetti mostly and, uh, salad.”
When Tavoularis states that he “didn’t like the food,” we might
infer that he’s speaking about local Filipino food but, most
likely, is talking about the limited food options offered by the
film’s traveling chefs and kitchens. Along with the weather and
food, the production crew figure the country’s landscape as
uncomfortable and inhospitable, a place where even imported
canned goods became infested with local bugs—“as I opened
up the can,” Tavoularis recalls, “bugs came all crawling out of
the can, all over my hand. How the bugs got in a can, canned
goods, I don’t know.”
This depiction of the Philippine countryside as “a
quagmire of heat, humidity, inhospitable terrain and strange,
faceless natives,” Gerald Sussman has argued, fits within the
Hollywood tradition of “Third World settings, either as actual
shooting sites or Hollywood movie lot facsimiles” that serve as
“primitive or exotic backdrops for the heroic exploits of rugged
American individualist-type characters.” Within this tradition,
Americans become “victims” to the elements—of “an awkward,
complex, or hazardous condition”—rather than agents of US
imperial projects that “unself-consciously forced their entry,
oblivious to the damaging results.”8
After two years of editing and recovery from, what the
crew termed, “production hell,” the Hollywood Vietnam War
film won Coppola a Palme d’Or Award at the 1979 Cannes
Film Festival, among other international awards, as well as two
Academy Awards for Best Sound and Best Cinematography
in 1980. It solidified Zoetrope Studios as a production
company and Coppola as an auteur filmmaker vis a vis a
“frontier mentality” that, as Jasmine Trice has written, narrates
Coppola and his crew as filmmaking “risk takers” therefore
endowed with creative authorship and directorial auteur-ship.9
According to this frontier mentality, Coppola and his crew
battled and tamed the natural landscape, Hollywood studios
and tabloids, as well as America’s war machine, winning against
all odds and making a canonical film. This frontier mentality
also depends upon the popular and historical discourse of the
Philippines, one that has proliferated throughout the last two
hundred years—from anthropological and women’s travelogues
in the late 19th century, to the journalistic and travel writing of
the early 20th century American colonial period, to the Cold
War era area studies of US academics and political figures, all
the way to the late 20th century tabloid exploits of Hollywood
stars filming “on location”—from Martin Sheen to Claire
Danes.
“If Hollywood cannot erase the loss that is the
Vietnam War from historical record,” then “how does it make
use of that loss?”10 This question frames critic Sylvia Chong’s
study of Hollywood’s Vietnam War films. Apocalypse Now,
she argues, specifically restages and references the longer
histories of the “white man’s burden” and US imperialism in
Southeast Asia and the Philippines, in particular, through the
8 9
film’s plot, casting, and production history. At the same time,
Chong rightfully comments, the film’s production “submerge(d)
Coppola’s cast and crew into the neocolonial power relations
of Southeast Asia that organized the Vietnam War as well.”11
These relations are marked by “vampire capitalism,” as the
film and its makers drove to accumulate financial and cultural
capital by extracting value from the labors of Filipino artists,
local/everyday Filipinos, as well as Ifugao, Vietnamese, and
Cambodian extras who worked on the film. Producer Gray
Frederickson narrated it otherwise when, in an oral history
interview, he stated that local Filipinos benefited more from the
production’s presence than vice versa. The producer’s comments
are misinformed, to say the least, when we consider the uneven
living and working conditions for American extras (housed
in Baler Central Elementary School in relative comfort, paid
$25-50/day) versus Vietnamese extras (housed in a large tent
without toilet or washing facilities (paid $6.25/day) versus
Filipino extras (paid $3/day). His comments ignore how the
exploitation of Filipino manual and creative labor, military
equipment, cultural translators, Ifugao tribal members and
Southeast Asian refugees were the conditions of possibility for
making their award-winning piece of prestige cinema.
For writer and critic Viet Nguyen, images from
Hollywood Vietnam War films such as Apocalypse Now are
“evidence of not only Vietnamese suffering but also (the)
power of the entire apparatus that delivers the images to us.”12
He dubs this apparatus the Vietnam War “memory industry”
to underscore how memories have been “industrialized” and
“exploited as a strategic resource.” “Ready to capitalize on
history by selling memory to consumers hooked on nostalgia,”
a memory industry approach to the Vietnam War attunes us
to how nations participate in this industry unequally.13 While
the United States lost the actual war in Vietnam, it has won
the war on the cultural front. Hollywood films about the US
war in Vietnam, such as Apocalypse Now, function as powerful
“screen memories,” ones that center certain American narratives
and visions of the war while simultaneously screening out
Vietnamese, Filipino, and other Southeast Asian memories of
the war in the mainstream cultural imaginary. I would argue
that behind the scenes Apocalypse Now productions— such as
Eleanor Coppola’s book Notes: on the making of Apocalypse
Now and co-directed documentary Hearts of Darkness—as
well as critical and creative writing focused solely on the film’s
mimetic realities (onscreen, narrative/plot, etc.)—such as
Nguyen’s own Nothing Ever Dies (2016)—also work to screen
out memories of the film’s making—those shared by the
Filipino cast and crew, Vietnamese and Cambodian refugees,
and Ifugao tribal members.
“(C)ertain kinds of memories and remembering are
possible,” Viet Nguyen writes about the US war in Vietnam,
“because an industry of memory depends on, and creates,
‘structures of feeling.’”14 Despite being invisible and immaterial,
feelings “house us, shape us, let us see the world through its
LONG TAKE
window.” The white American structures of feeling associated
with the Vietnam War—of America’s war with its (moral)
self, of the white man’s burden in dealing with the savage, of
Cold War benevolence—extend as well to those associated
with the making of a film about the US war in Vietnam. But,
just as interesting, are Asian American structures of feeling
about Apocalypse Now (and the genre of Hollywood Vietnam
War films in general) focused simply on the film’s content,
not taking into consideration “the material and ideological
forces that determine how and why memories are produced and
circulated, and who has access to, and control of, the memory
industries.”15
“(A)ccess to particular (filming) locations,” Jeanette
Roan so aptly points out, “is politically and historically
conditioned.”16 Therefore, we must consider how memories are
produced by paying critical attention to film production and
on-location shoots—what James Duncan and Derek Gregory
describe as “corporeal subjects moving through material
landscapes” and Jeannette Roan outlines as “the entire network
of transportation technologies as well as the innumerable
individual and collective negotiations that are required to
produce representations of distant places.”17 These are the types
of labor and politics that a production history of Apocalypse
Now require us to reckon with. It is a methodological as well
as political choice to focus on “the material production of
imaginative geographies” and, in doing so, to “anchor(s) the
more familiar textual explications of a film in the realities
of what was required to produce them.”18 In my further
explorations of how these filmic memories were produced,
I aim to explore how Philippine Martial Law structures of
feeling—ones produced by the conditions of film and living
during a time of Martial Law—emerge from Apocalypse Now’s
production history.
III. September 21, 1972. Philippine President
Ferdinand Marcos signs into law Proclamation 1081 which
suspends the writ of habeas corpus and ushers in an era of
martial rule. Facing the end of his presidency term, as well
as sharp criticism from student activists, political opponents,
and workers, Marcos cites the need to save the republic from
the supposed “escalating violence” of protesters, Communists,
and separatist “rebels” from the Southern Philippines as well
as societal reform as basis for his proclamation. Martial law
(Martial Law) immediately becomes a way for Marcos to
handle any opposition--closing major media outlets, arresting
and detaining hundreds of journalists, teachers, students,
activists, political leaders, including his two major opponents
Senator Benigno Aquino and Jose Diokno. Alongside military-
backed suspension of rights, Marcos offers his vision of a
“New Society” that would end poverty, hunger, corruption,
deception and violence through agrarian reform, political and
media targets, and increased military and police surveillance.
In response to the fears of international allies and foreign
investors, the Marcos government mobilizes spectacular events
and “praise releases” (press releases) to forward nationalist ideals
and an image of Martial Law Philippines to deflect attention
away from militarized violence, extrajudicial killings, and
human rights violations.
Beyond simply the national, however, this period must
also be understood within the context of a global Cold War
whereby Marcos’s Martial Law regime is one supported by the
United States’ ongoing neocolonial presence, Cold War policies,
and special interests.19 By doing so, we can take a long view of
20th-century US-Philippine relations and turn our attention
to the long-standing effects of US war and colonialism within
the archipelagic nation. “The United States’ bloody suppression
of resistance by Filipinos, what has come to be known as the
Philippine-American War,” Roland Tolentino writes, “became
a precursor to the Vietnam War, the US using similar tactics
and strategies in both cases.”20 This first US war in Asia and
its imperial aftermaths strengthened the country’s military
bases and presence in the archipelagic nation, an infrastructure
that became active during its “hot” war in Vietnam (and the
Southeast Asia region, more broadly). The United States and
the Philippines’ shared narrative of fighting Communism
(and other terrorist elements) built up the perceived need
for increased military/militaristic presence. Later, near the
end of the war, their shared narrative of benevolence and
humanitarianism, undergirded by the long-standing US
military infrastructures in the Philippines, led to the country’s
hosting of war refugees from Vietnam and Cambodia. During
the 1960s and 1970s, the active military bases of Subic and
Clark also gave further rise to the ‘hospitality industries’ of
nearby Olongapo City and Angeles City. Lucy San Pablo
Burns reminds us of these interconnected histories through
her study of the undeniable presence of Filipina/o performers
in the Broadway musical Miss Saigon. Moving us beyond
authenticity debates that “pit Vietnamese against Filipino”
actors, she instead argues that the Filipina performing bodies
in the famous musical render “visual echoes” of an earlier image
of Filipinas “popularized by US military men as Little Brown
Fucking Machines, or LBFM.”21 Guided by these and other
critical Filipino/Filipino American studies scholars, I too argue
that the production history of Apocalypse Now prompts us to
examine the Philippines’ role during the Vietnam War and
Cold War, more broadly, by situating it within triangulated
histories of the United States, Vietnam, and the Philippines.
Apocalypse Now’s production required shooting
locations that mirrored the look and feel of Vietnam’s
landscape—lush jungles, rice paddies, water buffalo of its
countryside, rivers and beaches, as well as urban areas evoking
colonial histories and Southeast Asian modernity. Moreso, it
also required a place safe for filming a “Hollywood Vietnam
War film” in 1975—an unstable time of political transition near
the end of the war-- as well as access to US military equipment
 LONG TAKE
(especially Huey helicopters) and a local labor force with some level
of English proficiency. After failing to secure shoot locations in
Vietnam and Australia, various members of Coppola’s production
crew turned to the Philippines as a potential site, knowing they could
rely upon industry contacts made during previous film shoots and
events. Casting and line producer Fred Roos knew, from working on
three previous films made in the Philippines, that “you would always
have problems and things you couldn’t count on there, and people
would want money, and it was more unpredictable (as a base).”22
Yet, he also knew he could rely on invaluable in-country Philippine
industry contacts. Trying and failing to enlist support from both the
Department of National Defense in Washington and the Armed
Forces of the Philippines HQ in Manila, including “military technical
advisers, military escorts, aircraft (mostly Huey helicopters), ordinance
(firearms, artillery, etc.), military vehicles and a radio communication
system,” Frederickson was also able to tap into his transnational
film industry network. Giovanni Volpi, whose family had founded
the Venice Film Festival and was living in Manila in the 1970s,
opened the door for Frederickson (and Coppola) to have dinner with
President Marcos and his military aides at Malacañang Palace one
night. This chance event led to a contract being signed on October
1, 1975, between the Philippines’ Department of National Defense
(DND) and Coppola Cinema Seven. The president and the DND
imposed no fee on the film production company for its use of military
equipment, including 20 Huey helicopters, and military personnel.
It only required that the helicopters be called back, at any time, in
the government’s fight against its own country’s Communists and
separatist rebels.
Philippine Martial Law set the conditions of possibility
for Apocalypse Now’s production. The former president’s support of
Coppola’s “anti-war” Vietnam War film fell in line with his regime’s
policies and platform of tourism development.23 Establishing the
first-ever Philippine Department of Tourism in May 1973, Marcos
aimed to project a “facade of normality” and to “further the image of
a peaceful, contented society” through front-page news stories and
promotional slogans of “Martial Law--Philippine Style” and “Where
Asia Wears a Smile.” Viewed within his government’s aggressive
efforts to “attract international gatherings of global appeal,” Marcos’s
support of an international production of global (read, Hollywood)
appeal—with its behind the scenes production news and gossip
filling the pages of Variety, the New York Times, and other national
news outlets in the United States—situated his presidential power
in proximity to Hollywood’s global reach while simultaneously
upholding his military legitimacy through his wielding (and
withholding) of military equipment and personnel.
As with tourism, Marcos’s humanitarian efforts with
post-war Southeast Asian refugees through the Philippine Refugee
Processing Center aimed to divert attention away from his regime’s
violence while also working to “recuperate the personal image of the
Philippines’ First Couple as compassionate and merciful Christians.”
“(I)n April 1975, with South Vietnam on the verge of collapsing,”
write Yen Le Espiritu and Joseph Ruanto-Ramirez, “the U.S.
Department of Defense, which was in charge of transporting the
10
Baler Museum. Doña Aurora (2019). Photo by author
Chona and Serena walk through Apocalypse Now exhibit (Arkeofilms,
2015)
LONG TAKE
evacuees, designated Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines
the first refugee ‘staging area.’”24 Many of these refugees from
Vietnam and Cambodia served as Apocalypse Now extras.
Poet Cathy Linh Che’s parents were two such refugee extras
that appeared in the infamous “napalm scene” on the beaches
of Baler. Their experiences fueled Che’s recent poetry series,
‘Zombie Apocalypse Now,” as well as a short documentary
she is currently making with filmmaker Christopher Radcliff.
As Che reflected upon during a podcast interview, at first,
“my narrative was, ‘you’re being exploited. You’re being placed
at the margins of your own story.’ (And) my parents, on the
other hand, (would) say things like, ‘We were so bored. We
were excited to do something. We couldn’t make any money.
So, it was nice to earn some money while we were stateless
(essentially).’” Her parents’ unexpected humor and critical
insights also emerge in their description of filming the napalm
scene: “So, (my parents) have basically (just) escaped Vietnam.
And I asked my mom, have you seen napalm before? And she
said, yeah, all the time. And so, in the film itself, it is both very
real to my parents, it looks terrifying… At the same time, the
napalm explodes up rather than down. And so, my mother
also…you know, she laughs and laughs about how fake it is, the
movie making they are doing. it is both simultaneously hyper-
real and nothing like the real thing.”25 As yet unheard behind
the scenes perspectives, Che’s mother’s story and commentary
underscore Marcosian policies as the conditions of possibility
for the film’s making while also disrupting both Hollywood’s
self-mythologizing tendencies (as on location shoots that index
the “real” and “authentic”) as well as Asian Americans’ own
presumed political affects (of being “exploited” and “placed
at the margin”). Instead, what emerges are different ways of
‘making sense’ of the film’s production, ones both poignant and
unexpected.
Approaching Apocalypse Now’s production history
during a time of Cold War politics, Southeast Asian “hot
wars,” and Marcosian policies and imaginaries directs our
attention to Philippine Martial Law as “not only a historical
period but also an epistemology and production of knowledge,
and as such it exceeds and outlives its historical eventness.”
In a similar fashion to how Jodi Kim has described the
Cold War, Philippine Martial Law is, at once, “a structure of
feeling, a knowledge project, a hermeneutics for interpreting
developments.”26 Approaching Apocalypse Now as a Philippine
Martial Law production, we are reminded of the various
participants involved in making the Marcosian imaginary and
the various scales and registers on which it took place—not just
the national but also local, translocal, settler-colonial, regional,
and transnational. At the same time, by centering the stories of
Che’s parents and others deemed “extra” to both cinematic and
historical accounts, we, as scholars and artists, are instructed
to re-think any preconceived narratives we might bring to our
research and study.27
IV. 1735, 1898, 1976: These three historical dates
appear onscreen and open Apocalypse Child. Spoken by Fiona
through voiceover, each of these dates indexes different
historical moments—the precolonial, US colonial, and US
Hollywood neocolonial—that have produced the “myths of
Baler.” As myths, these stories toggle the line between historical
and supernatural time, between fact and fiction. Throughout
the film, we get a sense of Baler as a place and as one of the
film’s main characters. Easily accessible by motorbike or foot,
the ever-present beachfront anchors the film’s storylines. Along
its coastlines, resorts and restaurants, like the one previously
owned by Rich’s family, cater to tourists with American
pancakes and breakfast specials. Barely paved dirt roads are
pathways for motorized vehicles and pedestrians alike. Along
these roads, Ford and Fiona “day trip” on his motorbike, visiting
places such as the “old town underwater” and Reserva, areas
secured by local families during tsunamis and other natural
disasters. Walking through a forested area, Ford warns Fiona
to “tabi tabi po,” paying respects to local dwende whose hill-
homes one must not step on or otherwise be dealt their wrath
through bad luck. Growing up in this island town, Ford shares
childhood stories of abularyos (faith healers) and the mermaids
he has encountered in the ocean. In the film, Baler is a place
where the human and supernatural live side by side.
Even Coppola’s Vietnam film becomes one of the
many generators of folktales and myths for Baler, drawing
our attention to the relationship between on-screen fictions
and real-life truths. Within the magical time of Apocalypse
Child, Baler becomes a place that has existed before the
Hollywood film production’s arrival and that persists even after
its departure. Cornejo and Jimenez’s film has the potential to
help us expand our view of Baler as simply the backdrop or set
location for a Hollywood film that “wasn’t just about Vietnam,
it was Vietnam.” And yet, in a pivotal scene, early in the film,
a large exhibit of Apocalypse Now archival materials – film
production stills, photographs, and posters—set the scene for
Chona’s recollections of the film’s effect on the town and of
meeting the film’s director (and Ford’s supposed father). In the
service of Apocalypse Child’s storyline, the Manila-based indie
film continues to center Apocalypse Now and, by extension,
Hollywood in this Philippine province’s history.
Again, guided by Apocalypse Child’s representation
of Baler, on that June 2019 trip, I take a tour of the province’s
various historical locations with local tricycle driver Mang
Ruel. We pass Reserva and Cemento Beach but also Ermita
Hill, where Baler’s “founding families” survived an 18th-century
tsunami, and the 700-year-old balete tree that tune us into the
longer histories and otherworldliness of this place. The tour
ride ends in the town’s plaza, at the Museo de Baler, where
I intended to see for myself the Hollywood film’s archival
remnants as featured in Cornejo and Jimenez’s indie film.
11
 LONG TAKE
The 600-year-old balete tree and longue durée of
Baler (2019). Photo by author
“Due to air-conditioning failures, the museum is
closed to visitors today,” the sign on the Museo’s door read. We
had arrived at 12 noon, a time, according to Mang Ruel, when
workers typically take lunch breaks. We decide to pass the time
by visiting the Quezon family ancestral home across the street,
where we purchase tickets for admission to both the house
and the Museo. An hour later, we return to the Museo. We try
to open the front door, peering into the steaming two-storey
building, and are met by yells from a local man reclining under
a nearby tree. Serving as the museum’s informal security guard,
he verbally reiterates the sign’s message to which Mang Roel
retorted in Tagalog, “We’ve paid for entrance to the Quezon
house. So, we have the right to enter the Museo as well.” I plead
in my broken Tagalog that we have come all the way from the
United States to search for one thing, and it would only take
me a few minutes to find it. He concede, and we quickly sneak
into the hot and humid museum, moving fast lest the informal
guard change his mind.
Running quickly through the museum, I slide and
catch my footing on the overly waxed and therefore slippery
floors multiple times. I imagine myself like a spree shopper
contestant on a TV game show, a researcher on the prowl for
that “missing piece.” Like when the library is about to close in
20 minutes, and you finally find that box of materials essential
12
to your work on the last day of an overseas research trip.
Moving quickly, my eyes scan for those Apocalypse Now-related
materials that I had seen in Apocalypse Child—a movie poster,
production stills, leftover costumes and props. At the same
time, I try to apprehend the materials on display, ones marking
other histories of Baler – the siege and battle of Baler, the
precolonial histories of indigenous peoples (such as the Aetas),
and, of course, the inescapable local legend, Doña Aurora
Quezon. It is a frenzied experience as I simultaneously search
for the particular while surveying Baler’s significance within
Philippine, Spanish, and world histories. Repeating this process
on the second floor, it is, as fate would have it, on the very last
wall I scan where I find what I am looking for. Underneath
another towering painting of Doña Aurora appears a single
non-descript production photo from Apocalypse Now among a
line-up of other stills.
What did this episode in the Museo teach me? How
did it shift my worldview and scholarly approach?
First, proceeding from a decolonial reading of the
situation, I questioned the need and desire for visibility based
on American standards and storylines. Second, proceeding
from a metropole-provincial reading of the situation, I
questioned our framing of provincial places (and historical
events) from the places of Manila, New York, and so forth.
Instead, I am now led toward an archipelagic reading
of Apocalypse Now’s production history, one that aims to
understand scales of relation simultaneously (i.e. United States
to Philippines, Manila to Baler, Philippines to Southeast
Asia, etc.). It is a practice and approach that bears in mind the
archipelago as both a formation recognized from the outside—
requiring a bird’s eye view, a flyover, a broader perspective
of the particular within the whole—as well as one lived
and understood internally—sensed and felt as a network of
connections, a web of differences. The archipelago is a form that
is both natural and human-made, an itinerary of distinct places
that come together and gather meaning.
Moving forward, I now want to approach Apocalypse
Now as a product and production of both Philippine Martial
Law and the archipelagic, a filmic event that took place in
different parts of the Philippines—Baler, Subic, Pagsanjan,
and Manila—and came together as “one place” through the
editing of Coppola’s feature and the narration of behind the
scenes texts that surround it (such as Hearts of Darkness). With
an archipelagic practice, we can undo the “colonial lumping”
and structures of feeling that represent the Philippines as a
singular place (or substitute), instead recalling each location’s
specificities, their relationships to and against each other. With
an archipelagic practice, distinct Philippine places exist on
equal footing with each other. Tipping the scale of Apocalypse
Now’s production history and, by extension, Martial Law’s
re-telling away from the national, we instead lean toward local,
translocal, regional, and archipelagic imaginaries.
LONG TAKE
Christine Bacareza Balance teaches in performing & media arts, Asian American studies, and the Southeast Asia Program
(SEAP) at Cornell University. She is the author of Tropical Renditions: Making Musical Scenes in Filipino America (2016) and
co-editor of California Dreaming: Movement & Place in the Asian American Imaginary (2016). A proud board member of Cinema
Sala—a platform showcasing Filipino & Filipino American work in film & the performing arts—she is currently working on
a book entitled, Making Sense of Martial Law, that analyzes Martial Law poetics through US- and Philippine-based artistic
productions, performances, and cultural events.
Acknowledgement
My thanks to Allan Punzalan Isaac for “gifting” me this formulation and his time and critical insights during the process of
writing and revising this essay. Many thanks as well to Gary Gabisan, Courtney Garcia of the Coppola archives, Monster Jimenez
and Mario Cornejo, Marie Jamora and Ricardo Montez for helping to make this writing possible. Salamat kaayo to Patrick
Campos for the invitation to contribute which has prompted this first (published) foray back into my next book project, to the
PELIKULA production team for their labor and support throughout this process.
Endnotes
1 Mang Rodel’s story is, of course, disputed by another local surfer, Kuya 12 Viet Thanh Nguyen, Nothing Ever Dies: Vietnam and the Memory of War
(Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2016), 105.
Edwin Namoro, who Cornejo and Jimenez interviewed during their
research and preparation in filming Apocalypse Child. One of “the boys 13 Ibid., 13.
who learned how to surf on an Apocalypse Now surfboard,” Kuya Edwin’s 14 Ibid., 107.
version of the film’s production story and its effects upon the sleepy 15 Ibid.
coastal town led the filmmakers to write on the film’s “Field Notes” blog 16 Jeanette Roan, Envisioning Asia: On Location, Travel, and the Cinematic
(https://apocalypsechild.com/field-notes/): Geography of U.S. Orientalism (Ann Arbor, Michigan: University of
Michigan Press, 2010), 15.
“Here’s something real and true: There was no real surfing to speak of in 17 Ibid., 5. For more on what a production studies approach has to offer,
Baler until the shoot of Apocalypse Now. particularly in our studies of foreign/”on-location” shoots, see also Vicki
Mayer, Miranda Banks, and John Caldwell’s co-edited Production Studies:
Edwin told us that the fishermen got angry when he and his friends Cultural Studies of Media Industries (New York: Routledge, 2009) and
would surf. They thought that the surfers were disturbing the sea gods, Greg Elmer and Mike Gasher’s co-edited Contracting Out Hollywood:
and every empty net was blamed on Edwin and his friends, riding the Runaway Productions and Foreign Location Shooting (New York: Rowman
& Littlefield Publishers, 2005).
waves, angering the merfolk. Eventually, Edwin and his friends became
local legends, and tourism and surfing became the main source of income 18 Roan, 16.
for Baler. Only then did the fishermen begrudgingly leave them alone. 19 For more on this, see Josen Diaz’s forthcoming Postcolonial Configurations:
Dictatorship, the Racial Cold War, and Filipino America (Durham, North
Carolina: Duke University Press, 2023).
So, if local legend is to be believed, Apocalypse Now is the source of
Philippine surf culture.” 20 Rolando Tolentino, “Popular Discourse of Vietnam in the Philippines,”
Philippine Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints 15, no. 2 (2002):
231.
I cite this passage at length not as a means of arriving at a singular,
undebatable truth but instead to underscore Cornejo and Jimenez’s film’s 21 Lucy San Pablo Burns, Puro Arte: Filipinos on the Stages of Empire
emphasis on the “myths” of Baler—the stories that a place and its people (Durham, North Carolina: Duke University Press, 2012), 118.
might tell themselves, stories we might regard as historical but that are 22 Tavoularis, ZM Productions Interview.
23 Linda Richter, “The Political Uses of Tourism: a Philippine Case Study,”
often unauthenticated, their power instead drawing from their ongoing
repetition, circulation, and effects. The Journal of Developing Areas no.14 (1980): 237-257.
2 As this research is current and ongoing, I hope to interview and converse 24 Yen Le Espiritu and J.A. Ruanto-Ramirez, “The Philippine Refugee
with the Philippines-based production crew and staff who worked on Processing Center: the Relational Displacements of Vietnamese Refugees
and the Indigenous Aetas,” Verge: Studies in Global Asias 6, no.1 (Spring
Apocalypse Now. If this is you, dear reader, or someone you know, please
feel free to email me directly (cbalance@cornell.edu). My long-term aim 2020).
25 “Ashley Jones and Cathy Linh Che in Conversation,”The Poetry Magazine
is to learn more from these stories, anecdotes, and vantage points and to
help them find life in publicly documented and published forms. Podcast, June 29, 2021, accessed online on November 23, 2022, www.
poetryfoundation.org/podcasts/156186/ashley-m-jones-and-cathy-linh-
3 Gerald Sussman, “Bulls In The Indo (China) Shop,” Journal of Popular
Film and Television 20, no.1 (1992): 26 che-in-conversation.
4 For more on “imperial formations,” see Ann Laura Stoler and Carole 26 Jodi Kim, Ends of Empire: Asian American Culture and the Cold War
McGranahan’s introductory essay, “Refiguring Imperial Terrains,” in their (Minneapolis, Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 3.
co-edited volume Imperial Formations (Durham, North Carolina: Duke 27 For the book chapter version of this essay, I am also interested in
University Press, 2007) examining the role of Ifugao extras within the film. Doing so, I extend
5 Peter Cowie, The Apocalypse Now Book, (New York: Perseus Books Group, the critical conversations begun by Sylvia Chong and Talitha Espiritu
2001), 7. by examining how the Ifugao’s involvement both resurrected colonialist
6 Ibid. logics of indigeneity (vis a vis Coppola’s film as well as Martial Law
7 Dean Tavoularis, ZM Productions Interview, Tape 15A, date unknown. places such as Nayong Pilipino, the 1904 World Fair-style park in Manila
8 Sussman, “Bulls In The Indo (China) Shop,” 25 where casting director Eva Gardos first “encountered” the Ifugao) as well
9 Jasmine Trice, “Location Shooting in ‘the Wild East’: Risk and as point our attention toward Martial Law deployment of indigeneity
Masculinity in Hollywood productions in the Philippines,” Feminist as evidenced through cultural/tourism policies and events. See Chong,
“Going Native, or, The Return of the White Man’s Burden: Apocalypse
Media Studies 17, no.6 (2017): 988-1004.
10 Sylvia Chong, The Oriental Obscene: Violence and Racial Fantasies in the Now (1979)” in Oriental Obscene and Talitha Espiritu, “Native subjects on
Vietnam Era (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2011), 130. display: reviving the colonial exposition in Marcos’ Philippines,” Social
11 Chong, The Oriental Obscene: Violence and Racial Fantasies in the Vietnam Identities 18, no.6 (November 2012): 729-744.
Era, 154-155.
13
 SHORT TAKE
I
n the early 1930s, Cecilia Montaire Navarro, a
Filipina émigré who lived among farmworkers
in Northern California was buried alive by
the members of a Filipino religious-civic community as
punishment for allegedly having an extramarital relationship
with another Filipino. Newspapers all over the United States
sponsored on the murder and, sometime later, Filipino manongs
began scaring children with stories that she was haunting the
area as a malignant spirit.
Celine Parreñas Shimizu, an accomplished Filipina
American independent filmmaker and media scholar, revisits
the horrific tragedy in The Celine Archive (2020). In the
process, she devises a vital new paragon of decolonial feminist
documentary filmmaking. For Walter Mignolo and Catherine
Walsh, decoloniality entails not only a vigorous critique of
Western modernity and the many contemporary guises of
imperialism but also a complementary praxis that seeks to
“confront, transgress, and undo” them.1 The Celine Archive
works constantly on both elements of decoloniality, developing
a bracing critique of the woman’s plight under empire while
also reconfiguring documentary filmmaking practice in the
service of progressive ends.
The critique that the film advances is multi-pronged.
The first two prongs involve recuperating and representing
marginalized figures who have been virtually erased from
history. The third prong is an excoriation of the ideologies
and practices that led to the oppression of women like Cecilia
during their time. The cinematic vehicle for this three-pronged
critique is similarly complex. First, the filmmaker draws on the
resources of feminist documentary filmmaking, a subgenre of
documentary which Julia Lesage defines in mainly political
terms as “a cinematic genre congruent with...the [then]
contemporary women’s movement.”2 Though varying in
“cinematic sophistication” and “quality of political analysis,”
feminist documentaries tend to share certain aspects, such
as the spartan visual style of cinema verité and a soundtrack
“usually told in the subjects’ own words” and filled with
“women’s self-conscious, heightened, intellectual discussion
of role and sexual politics.”3 Second, in reconstructing the
gap-riddled story of Cecilia’s tragedy and gathering multiple
perspectives about it, The Celine Archive utilizes a rich
assemblage of audio-visual techniques associated with what
Linda Williams and other scholars have been calling the “new
documentary.”4 Williams attaches the term to the audio-
visually dense and syncretic form of documentary that often
embeds a self-conscious,5 postmodern questioning of truth
claims.6
Opposite page: Ornamental photos at Filipino American
National Historical Society (FANHS) Stockton Chapter
14
A key essay from an earlier era of postcolonial
feminist thought—Gayatri Spivak’s “Can the Subaltern
Speak?”7—is especially useful in elucidating the film’s
decolonial feminist retelling of Cecilia’s story. Spivak’s essay
has figured previously in Parreñas Shimizu’s scholarship and its
influence on The Celine Archive is almost palpable.8 Indeed, it
is useful to imagine the film as an informal dialogue between
the filmmaker and the essay, with the latter representing both
Spivak’s work and the still-vital influence that postcolonial
critique can play in the advancement of decolonial feminist
documentary today. In The Celine Archive the filmmaker
“buries the theory,” so to speak, making the film accessible to
a wide viewership by steering clear of the academic jargon and
pedantic tenor found in many works of postcolonial critique.
Still, she does not shy away from intellectual rigor, admirably
resisting the temptation to adopt the popular models of true
crime documentaries or sweeping historical nonfiction cinema
that would have given The Celine Archive a surer path to public
or network television at the expense of the multi-layered and
deeply introspective approach the subject warrants.
Cecilia’s parents brought her and her siblings to
Hawaii from the Philippines—newly acquired colonial
possessions of the US at the time—when they immigrated
to meet a demand for cheap agricultural labor. The family
eventually moved to the West Coast and in her mid-teens
Cecilia married a man who was many years her senior.
During the Great Depression, as Filipinos and other foreign
workers were being pushed out by heightened competition
for employment and growing racial animus, life in the US
became untenable for Cecilia and her family. She sent their
children back to the Philippines to be cared for by relatives.
Her husband, who was deteriorating from tuberculosis,
followed later. Cecilia was wooed by another Filipino man
or was perhaps involved in an amorous relationship with
him—the film plainly states that there are competing theories
of her supposed transgression, none more convincing than
the others. Alone in Northern California, several hours away
from her sisters in the Southern part of the state, Cecilia faced
Filmmaker Celine Parreñas Shimizu peruses archival materials at the Filipino
American National Historical Society in Stockton, CA. Still from The Celine
Archive (Silygria Films, 2020). All images are used with permission
15
 SHORT TAKE
This archival news clipping offers a sensationalized account of Cecilia’s murder. Still
from The Celine Archive (Silygria Films, 2020)
a mob of Filipinos who were purportedly offended by her moral
transgression. The assailants were comprised of members of the
Caballeros de Dimas-Alang and its women’s auxiliary group the
Maria Clara Lodge, prominent Filipinx American organizations
bearing names associated with national hero José Rizal. Though the
crime received considerable national publicity, the seven individuals
accused of murdering Cecilia walked free.
In reconstructing Cecilia’s story, The Celine Archive
grapples with what Spivak describes as “the problem of the muted
subject of the subaltern woman.”9 In “Can the Subaltern Speak?”
Spivak articulates the problematics of speaking about a historical
subject who was so extremely marginalized in her time that her
existence was rendered virtually invisible to history by her class
position, gender, place within the colonial regime, and the biases
of historical scholarship. In the spirit of Antonio Gramsci, Spivak’s
definition of the subaltern includes the “illiterate peasantry, the
tribals, [and] the lowest strata of the urban subproletariat.”10 Cecilia
decidedly fits Spivak’s notion of a marginalized, voiceless figure in
society. How could anyone possibly undo such historical muting?
From the outset, Spivak’s essay foregrounds an honest
accounting of the “historical role of the intellectual”11 who earnestly
seeks to speak of or on behalf of the subaltern in some way. Many
of the figures involved in anticolonial scholarship in Western
academia are immigrants from what we now call the Global South
or are persons of color who, despite their marginalization vis-à-vis
powerful Caucasian scholars, nevertheless count themselves among
the relatively privileged class of “first world intellectual[s].”12
Parreñas Shimizu, having immigrated to the US from her native
Philippines in childhood, straddles both categories; although, like
Spivak, Parreñas Shimizu’s institutional affiliation ties her more
closely to the latter category. As with Spivak’s essay, The Celine
Archive self-consciously lays out Parreñas Shimizu’s motivations
16
from the outset. She invokes a postcolonial historian’s
epistemological and political interest in recuperating
Cecilia’s story as a subaltern colonial subject. “Where
are the women in Filipino American history?” she asks
rhetorically near the film’s beginning. The filmmaker
shares that she is also impelled by a desire to work
through the death of one of her sons, a grieving process
that she sees as somewhat parallel to the unfinished
mourning that Cecilia’s descendants have been
experiencing all these years as they wait for a more
substantial account of her ordeal.
Parreñas Shimizu’s decision to emphasize that
the documentary’s subject is her namesake—Cecilia was
sometimes referred to as Celing, possibly misheard as
“Celine” by non-Filipinos unfamiliar with the practice
of changing the last syllable of a person’s name to “ing”
to suggest familiarity—recalls the signaling of “the
filmmakers’ close identification with their subjects” that
Lesage observes in the feminist documentary.13 When
Parreñas Shimizu draws a few parallels between her and
Cecilia, it is not out of a “misplaced overidentification
with third world women on the part of Western
academic feminists” that, according to Rosalind Morris,
Spivak chiefly problematizes in “Can the Subaltern
Speak?”14 Rather than conflating both women, however,
this slippage between Celine and Celing invokes their
similar experiences of marginalization and tragedy while
also deepening the viewer’s appreciation of the yawning
gulf between an indigent subaltern who lived before the
civil rights era and an accomplished first world scholar
(and now dean in a public research university) in the
early 2020s.
Spivak’s essay and The Celine Archive both offer
extended reflections on the outsize role that archives play
in any effort to recuperate the history of the subaltern
woman. Near the start of the film, Parreñas Shimizu
is shown rummaging through files at the Filipino
American National Historical Society’s (FANHS)
branch in Stockton, California, an area once settled by
many Filipinos and the location of Historic Manilatown
in the northern part of the Golden State. This scene
introduces one of the film’s principal narrative strands,
what Antoinette Burton calls an “archive story,” a tale
relating not only what brought the researcher to the
archive and what they found there but also the story of
the archive itself and how the knowledge located there
is put to use.15 Parreñas Shimizu’s quest is a familiar
one for historians of women and imperialism because
their projects mainly involve plumbing the depths
of the archive to retrieve what Burton describes as
“arrested histories,” narratives “suspended from received
historiography” due to the perceived insignificance
of their subjects.16 The film’s title—lest one forget—
SHORT TAKE
foregrounds the central significance not only of Celine/Celing/
Cecilia but the archive as well.
As it turns out, even an archive dedicated to Filipinx
American history located close to where Cecilia died comes up
short. It mostly holds newspaper clippings, most of which turn
out to be comprised of dubious and sensationalistic reportage.
This archive is implicitly linked to the onscreen presence of
Alex Fabros, Jr. the co-author with his wife Katherine of a
1997 article in a Filipino American magazine that helped
revive interest in Cecilia’s murder.17 He tells the story of
how around two hundred students in his courses gathered
documents about the incident, constituting an ad-hoc archive
for the purpose of remediating US history’s virtual forgetting
of Cecilia. That archive served as the basis for his pioneering
account, a narrative that the film reveals to have been shaped
by the gaps, errors, distortions, and tendentiousness of its
journalistic sources.
At one point in the film, the “official” archive—that
of the government—is invoked to bear witness to Cecilia’s life.
Apparently, all it contributes is to say that she moved across
California during a census year and that the cause of death
listed on her death certificate was indeed unnatural as reported
in the news. It should become apparent to viewers that Cecilia’s
marginalization in her lifetime was reinforced by her lack of
access to and participation in the spheres of socio-economic
activities that would have allowed her life—rather than just
her gruesome death—to leave more substantial impressions
on the historical record. Late into the film, the crew follows
members of the FANHS staff to storage lockers containing
newly donated ephemera from the Caballeros de Dimas-Alang
and the Maria Clara lodge, raising the possibility that it could
supply further information about Cecilia. The camera shows
that the collection had not even been processed and yet it is
already evident from the objects in view—banners, manuals,
ceremonial paraphernalia like resin skulls—that the traces of
an indigent migrant woman who dwelled at the margins of the
agricultural sector, even one who was killed by the members of
the organization that owns the archive, are likely nonexistent as
well.
Reflecting on her essay over two decades since its
publication, Spivak relates a common misunderstanding of
the rhetorical question that serves as its title. Spivak avers she
did not mean that subalterns “couldn’t speak,” only they did
not succeed in “being heard,” because there were simply “no
institutions through which they could make whatever they
want[ed] to say count.”18 The documentary’s tour of various
archives dramatizes the notion that so much of Cecilia’s life
story did indeed go unheard by the institutions that surrounded
her.
The documentary makes the most of the few extant
traces of Cecilia’s story that she had some hand in authoring
or that belong to her family. These include a handful of old
photographs showing Cecilia, some of her family members,
and what appears to be the ramshackle dwelling made of scrap
wood and metal where she or her kin may have lived at some
point. Though she did not take those photos, the fact that she
posed for some of them means that she played a role in shaping
their content. As for the photos that were not of her, one might
say that her family had kept them all these years partly on her
behalf, to keep the memory of the world in which she lived
from fading. However, instead of lingering on, reusing, and
fetishizing photographs as Ken Burns does in his historical
documentaries, The Celine Archive presents these objects as
fragments in a very incomplete assemblage, no different from
the shards comprising the fractured narrative of Cecilia’s life.
To use a different metaphor, one might say that in relation to
the totality of the documentary material within the film, the
photographs appear as tiny islands surrounded by far larger
bodies of content produced by others, separated by time and
space from the elusive historical subject.
The paucity of primary sources on Cecilia—which is
to say, actuality footage, more archival pictures, and the like—is
not without potential disadvantages because most viewers of
nonfiction cinema have been trained to expect such elements
of historical documentaries and to equate them with facticity.
The Celine Archive addresses this potential credibility gap by
summoning testimonies from archivists, historical witnesses
(such as a descendant of members of the Maria Clara lodge),
and leading academics. The film also brings to bear the kind
of transcendental truth found only in art by incorporating a
poem about Cecilia from Jean Vengua. Only Filipinos and
Filipinas are enlisted in all these roles of witnessing, making
clear not only that they are the story’s privileged tellers but also
that the film, in keeping with a decolonial approach, rejects
the prerogative of telling history that the white-dominant
establishment has arrogated to itself for far too long.
Henie Navarro, Cecilia’s grandson, poses alongside family photographs and
Alex Fabros’ article. Still from The Celine Archive (Silygria Films, 2020)
17
 SHORT TAKE
Through the stylistic features of new documentary,
the film creates dynamic interchanges involving competing
perspectives, alternations between evidence and speculation,
and shifts between strong emotions and professorial discourse.
Departing from the stylistic conservativeness of many historical
documentaries, the film makes ample use of the lush audio-
visual style, creative mise-en-scène, computer graphics, episodic
structure, multiple narrators, and the contrived use of B-roll
footage associated with new documentaries such as Errol
Morris’s 1988 procedural The Thin Blue Line (though notably
without the dramatic re-enactments).
To cite some examples, the film uses computer graphics
to reproduce the sensational titles of newspaper articles about
Cecilia’s death along with the name of the publications and the
dates they appeared. The headlines and journalistic accounts are
replete with racist portrayals of Filipino Americans, playing on
colonialist tropes of native savagery and memorably describing
Cecilia’s extrajudicial killing as an act of “jungle justice.” Parreñas
Shimizu juxtaposes the images with interviews that use critical
race theory, postcolonial critique, and feminist thought to
illuminate the roles that yellow journalism and “yellow peril”
(anti-Asian) discourse played in Cecilia’s ordeal. The film offers
these words as a damning archive that paradoxically captured
some of the truth of Cecilia’s oppression while also peddling
lies and half-truths in the service of racism. The documentary
trains the viewer to read these words against the grain, cuing
viewers to apply the same critical procedure for every subsequent
instance in which the film cuts between newspaper headlines and
other (more reliable) documentary material. Here the decolonial
feminist documentary implants what might be described as a
decolonial hermeneutics of suspicion within mise-en-scène and
editing.
In the midst of this polyvocal discussion and stylistic
richness, the film complicates not only the received narrative of
Cecilia’s tragedy but also the relationship between the archive
and the subaltern woman. The film’s interviewees introduce
several unexpected twists, including the suggestion that Cecilia’s
assailants pounced on her not only for her ostensible infidelity
to her husband but because she previously stood up for a white
woman who was abused by a Filipino man. The progressive
complication of the narrative does not, however, build up to
an impression of the filmmaker (and, by extension, the viewer)
mastering the facts. Rather, the documentary continues to
thematize the relative emptiness of the archive while persisting
as best as it can in recovering Cecilia’s story both from sources
that are shown as transparently unreliable (such as the yellow
journalism mentioned earlier) or from persons of good faith who
must rely on imperfect sources and make informed conjectures.
As Williams avers, the goal of the new documentary’s complex
style and rhetoric is not to suggest that there is no truth to be
discerned but that only relative, contingent truths are available
to filmmakers and viewers.19 The Celine Archive reflects this
principle.
18
Dr. Dorothy Cordova (right) embraces Cecilia Navarro’s daughter Lucia
Navarro Isleta (left) after listening to a taped interview of Cecilia’s sisters.
Still from The Celine Archive (Silygria Films, 2020)
Apart from “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Spivak
famously poses another rhetorical question—or more
precisely, another iteration of the same question—in asking
“with what voice-consciousness can the subaltern speak?”20
The ultimate answer must be that if the subject in question
was truly subaltern then, despite the decolonial feminist
documentarist’s best efforts and intentions, viewers cannot
truly access that originary voice-consciousness. In trying to
channel the subaltern’s voice, the documentary filmmaker
would risk committing the folly Spivak has described as
that of “the first-world intellectual masquerading as the
absent nonrepresenter who lets the oppressed speak for
themselves.”21 Nevertheless, even as Spivak identifies the
pitfalls of the well-intentioned “politics of the oppressed,”
she acknowledges the desire to engage in what she calls
“counterhegemonic ideological production” in response to the
historical silencing of the subaltern.22
Jacques Derrida, who influenced Spivak and whose
influence in the Anglo-American world Spivak expanded
through her pioneering, widely used translation of his
monograph Of Grammatology, writes in Archive Fever of an
anarchival drive that, in contrast with the mnemonic function
of the archival, he associates with “the violence of forgetting,
[and] superrepression (suppression and repression).”23 If
anarchival forces have largely seized upon Cecilia’s existence,
what (desperate) measures can the decolonial feminist
documentary take to recuperate even the faintest echoes of
the subaltern’s effaced voice-consciousness?
In The Celine Archive, even the faintest echoes of
Cecilia’s voice-consciousness are shown to be ultimately
inaccessible. The closest that the documentary gets to a
witness’ testimony are the voices of Cecilia’s relatives. Their
voices are summoned forth in a profoundly moving segment
of the documentary at the Seattle area branch of FANHS
as Dr. Dorothy Cordova, who with her late husband Fred
were the pioneering scholars and archivists of the Filipino
SHORT TAKE
American experience, plays for Cecilia’s daughter Lucia and
granddaughter Tootsie surviving fragments of an interview
Fred recorded with Cecilia’s sisters several decades ago. As
Cordova movingly tells it, the two women, then already in their
80s, traveled to Washington State expressly to make sure that
the “real story” of their sister was told, in a final push to counter
the yellow journalism, defamatory gossip, and popular myths
surrounding the tragedy.
In the recording, the sisters draw on memories of a
lifetime as well as their final meeting with Cecilia two weeks
before her murder. By showing Cecilia’s descendants listening
to the tape with Cordova, the film reflexively depicts the
recording as yet another object that, like the documentary itself,
is several times removed from history and profoundly impacted
by the forces of archival decay. Cordova’s revelation about the
motivation behind the sisters’ account—that is, to debunk
falsehoods—has the unanticipated effect of reinforcing the idea
that their narrative, though offered earnestly, is not entirely
unimpeachable.
It is worth noting that the spareness of the filming
and editing of this sequence gives it emphasis by separating it
from the audio-visually layered portions of the film. Williams
observes similar passages in other new documentaries, when
“privileged moments of [cinema] verité” allow viewers to
“see the power of the past not simply by dramatizing it, or
reenacting it…but finally by finding its traces, in repetitions
and resistances, in the present.”24 Without denying the notion
that the truth about a traumatic past (such as Cecilia’s) is
finally unrepresentable in movies,25 The Celine Archive positions
viewers to give these testimonies some weight because of the
good faith of the witnesses and their proximity to the historical
subject.26
Early in the documentary, the filmmaker, her sister
(fellow academic) Rhacel Parreñas, Alex Fabros the author of
the pioneering article, and Cecilia’s grandson Henie Navarro,
make their way to a grassy area somewhere in Jersey Island
in Northern California. After traveling by water and along
desolate paths they finally reach a spot where, by Fabros’s
estimation, Cecilia was buried alive. Though it is never
verbalized and even in the absence of technology that could
have confirmed that a burial and disinterment had indeed
happened there, the film presents the spot as another kind
of archive relevant to Cecilia’s story. The location is not only
“archival” because it is potentially the repository of human
remains-as-artifacts but also because, to repurpose Anne
Cvetkovich’s evocative phrase, it comprises an “archive of
feelings.”27 For the filmmaker and other present-day mourners
on camera, the space gives mute testimony to the reality of the
crime while also activating such sentiments as rage, grief, and
melancholia among those who contemplate its significance.
Ann Laura Stoler’s notion of archives as encompassing
“collages of memory” rather than just repositories of documents
is germane here as well, for it captures how the presumed
burial site functions as an archive not just of emotions but
rememberings (both real and prosthetic).28 In this scene,
the filmmaker returns to utilizing the sparest means—the
unadorned stylistics of cinema verité—to render what the
documentary suggests are very real contestations between hard
evidence and an equally potent though oft-devalued subjective
truth, between painful remembrance and a racist and chauvinist
society’s practiced forgetting.
Much later in the film, the motif of burial site-as-
archive returns as Cecilia’s grandson takes the filmmaker to the
spot where he has placed a headstone for Cecilia in what used
to be the site of unmarked pauper’s graves. Henie relates that
some time ago, decades after the murder, his mother helped
him find the spot where she believed Cecilia’s remains were
reinterred. As in the scene at the presumed murder site, the
geography is shaky and the repository in question may well
contain someone else’s remains.
It is useful to recall that Spivak’s essay also ruminates
on the meanings assigned to the bodies of fallen women,
specifically women subjected to the practice of widow sacrifice
in India and, closer to Spivak’s experiences, the corpse of her
grandmother’s sister, a woman who was part of a group fighting
for India’s independence in the 1920s. The latter woman
took her own life because she could not bear to pull off a
political assassination she was assigned to commit. She timed
her suicide to occur during her menstruation so that no one
could say that she was driven to suicide by a pregnancy from
illicit sexual relations.29 In the face of the rhetorical question
serving as the title of her essay and in reference to the deceased
women she invokes, Spivak clarifies that subalterns did
resist their silencing by the forces of patriarchy, imperialism,
and class politics, among others. Indeed, so fervent was this
determination to be heard against the odds that, as Spivak
puts it, the relative who took her life endeavored to “make her
body speak, even unto death.”30 As the documentary has been
helping us understand all along through its narrative of scant
archives and an epistemology that acknowledges the limits of
decolonialist endeavors, and as the film is brought to a close
with a final instantiation of an archive, the very uncertainty of
Cecilia’s body’s location is also yet another damning indicator
of her programmed erasure as a subaltern woman. With no
immediate prospects for DNA analysis, she remains a subject
who would likely be deemed too insignificant by the authorities
to spend time on. Spivak writes: “If, in the context of colonial
production, the subaltern has no history and cannot speak,
the subaltern as female is even more deeply in shadow.” 31
Perhaps if Cecilia was a community or labor leader she would
be considered worthy of help from forensic anthropologists.
On the flipside, a negative or inconclusive DNA test might risk
unmooring Cecilia from a space where she has been emplaced
and is lovingly remembered by family. Just as the subaltern
woman is a “consciousness we cannot grasp,” the material traces
19
 SHORT TAKE SHORT TAKE

Endnotes

1 Walter D. Mignolo and Catherine E. Walsh, On Decoloniality Concepts, Analytics, Praxis (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2018), 18.
2 Julia Lesage, “The Political Aesthetics of the Feminist Documentary Film,” Quarterly Review of Film Studies 3, no. 4 (September 1978): 507.
3 Ibid., 519.
4 Linda Williams, “Mirrors without Memories: Truth, History, and the New Documentary,” Film Quarterly 46, no. 3 (April 1, 1993): 9–21; Stella Bruzzi, New
Documentary: A Critical Introduction (London: Routledge, 2011).
5 Ibid., 11.
6 Ibid., 17.
7 Gayatri C. Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?,” in Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, ed. Lawrence Grossberg and Cary Nelson (London: Macmillan,
1988), 66–111.
8 Celine Parreñas Shimizu, The Hypersexuality of Race: Performing Asian/American Women on Screen and Scene (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 188.
9 Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?,” 91.
10 Ibid., 78.
11 Ibid., 69.
12 Ibid., 97.
13 Lesage, “The Political Aesthetics of the Feminist Documentary Film,” 521.
14 Rosalind C. Morris, ed., Can the Subaltern Speak?: Reflections on the History of an Idea (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), 1.
15 Antoinette Burton, ed., Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005), 7.
16 Ibid., 33.
17 Alex Fabros, Jr. and Katherine Fabros, “Jersey Island Murder Case,” Filipinas, October 1997.
18 Spivak, “In Response: Looking Back, Looking Forward,” in Can the Subaltern Speak?: Reflections on the History of an Idea, ed. Rosalind C. Morris (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2010), 228.
19 Williams, “Mirrors without Memories,” 20.
20 Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?,” 80.
21 Ibid., 97.
22 Ibid., 103.
23 Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 79.
24 Williams, “Mirrors without Memories,” 15.
25 Ibid., 14.
Cecilia Navarro’s family members attend a belated memorial service organized by the filmmakers. Still from The Celine Archive (Silygria Films, 2020) 26 The notion of historical trauma as ethically, epistemologically, and practically unrepresentable in cultural-literary productions such as film is found in
innovative documentaries like Claude Lanzmann’s Shoah, a sprawling meditation on genocide in which no historical images of the Holocaust are used
because the filmmaker sees them as incommensurable to history. This idea resonates with Spivak’s position about the subaltern’s irretrievable voice-
consciousness.
of her body remain profoundly elusive.32 in images of the filmmaker practicing yoga, making food for 27 Ann Cvetkovich, An Archive of Feelings: Trauma, Sexuality, and Lesbian Public Cultures (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003),10.
her family, and visiting a memorial plaque for her son Lakas at 28 Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2009), 34.
Mignolo and Walsh remind us that “enacting 29 Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?,” 103.
a park. 30 Spivak, “In Response: Looking Back, Looking Forward,” 229.
resurgences and re-existence of devalued and demonized praxis
31 Spivak, “Can the Subaltern Speak?,” 82.
of living” is another “fundamental task of decoloniality.”33 As the film winds down, it returns to footage of 32 Ibid., 84.
They define “resurgence” as “renewal, restoration, revival or Celine doing yoga and then, in a post-title sequence, draws a 33 Mignolo and Walsh, On Decoloniality Concepts, Analytics, Praxis, 173.
a continuing after interruption”34 and “re-existence” as “the parallel by showing the funeral attendees doing push-ups and 34 Ibid., 17.
35 Ibid., 13.
redefining and re-signifying of life in conditions of dignity.”35 dance steps for Cecilia. For Mignolo and Walsh, resurgence 36 Ibid., 127.
They recognize the vital role that art and culture play in the and re-existence are fitting responses to the “naturalization 37 Ibid., 3; Paul Gilroy, Postcolonial Melancholia (New York: Columbia University Press, 2005), xv.
colonized’s endeavors to liberate themselves and each other of death” that coloniality engenders.36 In the film, the breath
from the snares of Western modernity, to continuously redefine of life in yoga, dancing, and everyday existence functions as
their lifeways, to thrive anew and as never before. In The Celine a simple but powerful metaphor for the modes of thriving
Archive, the moment of narrative closure at the site of Cecilia’s associated with decolonial resurgence and re-existence. Apart
grave pivots from a reckoning with obliteration and the from anchoring life, the mindful breathing, aerobic exercise,
aporia of historical insignificance to a collective yearning for and silliness comprise modes of what Paul Gilroy calls
resurgence and re-existence. A second scene at the spot where conviviality, the banal rituals of togetherness amid divisions
Henie had placed a gravestone for Cecilia captures a belated (including those wrought by historical trauma) that subtend
funeral that the filmmakers have organized for her, with plenty decolonial, multicultural, and multiracial democracies.37 As
of descendants and their friends in attendance. The attendees well, the fitness activities and merrymaking at the gravesite
offer heartfelt tributes to someone they know mainly through foster transgenerational solidarity, countering the still-
second-hand tales of her oppression. They grieve her and, in proximate forces of necropolitics and social death facing
doing so, bemoan their own marginalization in US society as communities of color in the United States.
well. But the ending also picks up the thread of endurance and
resurgence already present at the beginning of the documentary

José B. Capino is a Professor of English and Media and Cinema Studies at the University of Illinois. He is the author of Martial
Law Melodrama: Lino Brocka’s Cinema Politics (University of California Press, 2020).
20 21
 LONG TAKE

Gaslighting

I
n one of the most poignant scenes in Isabel
Sandoval’s Lingua Franca (2019), the audience
watches the protagonist, Olivia (Sandoval),
absentmindedly watching the late-night news about former
US President Donald Trump. With the camera closing in
on her harangued face, the viewers can only hear Trump’s
voice booming from the screen, dispensing his staple anti-
immigration rhetoric and inflaming the crowd of racist
Americans attending his political rallies. The voice and the
speech have become familiar throughout the world, but
especially for Olivia. She is particularly vulnerable to the kind
of violence that these words engender in her everyday life.
Olivia, after all, is an undocumented immigrant in New York,
making her the target of such hate speech.

This scene also illustrates another form of violence

because a few moments later, Olivia’s lover, Alex (Eamon
Farren), quietly sits beside her on the couch. The audience
has just witnessed her wander around the streets of her
neighborhood. She was cowering in fear because of possible
surveillance and capture by the Immigration and Customs
Enforcement (ICE) agents. She has also just lost her passport,
the only document that, while still viciously deadnaming her,
remains to be her only ticket to gain citizenship in the country.
Unbeknownst to her—yet something the audience already
knows—it was the man beside her who hid her passport out
of gay panic from the discovery of Olivia’s transness. When
Olivia tells him that her passport is missing, Alex creates an
elaborate ruse about a house break-in and that the thieves may
have stolen her passport. Alex sits with Olivia on the sofa, but
he cannot seem to comfort her even as he lingers at the edge
of the frame. The audience sees Olivia’s face, swallowed in the
darkness and only visible in the faint glow of the TV’s blue
light, simmering in palpable fear, exhaustion, and helplessness.
This particular sequence signals two levels of
gaslighting: the structural violence of undocumentation that
renders the life of illegal immigrants like Olivia vulnerable and
disposable, and the more intimate violence perpetrated by a
straight, cisgender lover that disavows her trans identity in the
hopes of pursuing the fantasy of a heteropatriarchal American
dream. Sandoval’s camerawork here, however, makes this scene
particularly powerful because our gaze as a viewer is being
veered away from the violent image of Trump-era politics.
The camera instead directs our attention to the effects of this
disembodied hate speech on the body of an undocumented
immigrant. This scene also refuses the false comforts of
sentimentality as the audience is now fully aware, witnessing
how insidious this fantasy of heteronormative romance is to a
victimized, traumatized body of a trans woman.
Here, the cinematic politics of trans visibility counters
both the structural surveillance and intimate violence that
Gaslit: (Top) Olivia watches late-night news, and (bottom) Alex sits
with Olivia, unable to comfort her. (Isabel Sandoval, Lingua Franca, 7107
Entertainment, ARRAY Releasing, and JHR Films, 2019). All images are used
with permission
intensify the intersecting precarities of an undocumented
transwoman. Lingua Franca attempts to cultivate this kind
of gaze by reversing what is framed on the screen and where
the film points our focus. The film demands its audience to
feel what Olivia is feeling and to inhabit the space of the
disavowed to compel us to imagine what it must have felt
to be gaslighted yet still push on to survive and feel at home
despite being gaslit. The film portrays the emotional complexity
of an undocumented immigrant transwoman in America
to think through what it might mean for her abject body to
belong in a supposedly multicultural but, in fact, increasingly
hostile society. As Sandoval asserts in a Variety interview,
her film “invites the audience to look beyond the markers of
Olivia” and “put themselves in her shoes.”1 Through this trans
cinematic gaze,2 the film makes its audience reflect on notions
of cosmopolitanism by cultivating a more capacious way of
looking at and understanding what our society sees as queer,
transgressive, and utterly Other or stranger, a gaze capable of
empathizing with and embracing difference and marginality.3
This paper explores the intersections of transgender
migration, alternative citizenship, and cosmopolitanism
through the lens of trans theory. By analyzing Isabel Sandoval’s
Lingua Franca, this article first discusses the portrayal of the
vulnerabilities of undocumented and trans im/migrant lives in

22 23
 LONG TAKE
Trump-era America. From there, I examine how Olivia carves
her way out of her struggles to disrupt and challenge notions
of cosmopolitanism that are bound not just by class and
racial divides but also by dominant hetero- and cisnormative
discourses on citizenship and belonging. My analysis deploys
Susan Stryker, Paisley Currah, and Lisa Jean Moore’s notion of
trans-ing as “a practice that assembles gender into contingent
structures of association with other attributes of bodily being,
and that allows for their reassembly. Trans-ing can function as
a disciplinary tool, an escape vector, a line of flight, or pathway
toward liberation.”4 In my reading of the film, I argue that
Sandoval trans-es cosmopolitanism by rethinking notions of
sexual and intimate citizenship along the lines of ethics of
care that expands what belonging in the world might mean
from the perspective of those in the fringes of intersecting
hierarchies of class, race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality.
The Trans in Transnational
Isabel Sandoval’s body of work attests to the many
ways she looks into women and transwomen’s struggles amid
the turbulent political regimes in both her origin country, the
Philippines, and her host country, America. Her films have
been featured in local and international film festivals, where
she gained recognition and accolades as a filmmaker. Her first
two films, Señorita (2011) and Aparisyon (2012), both set in
the Philippines, are featured in the collection of the Criterion
Channel, an independent streaming service under the banner
of World Cinema. Her third full feature, Lingua Franca, has
been recently acquired by Array, a distribution company run by
the renowned American filmmaker Ava Duvernay, and is also
streaming on Netflix.
A look into Sandoval’s body of work as a trans
auteur5 reveals how she rethinks the various stakes of sexual
and intimate citizenship of women and transwomen in both
national and transnational settings. Her first film, Señorita
(2011), which she wrote, directed, and acted on, portrays the
life of a transwoman sex worker who comes home to her
province to find a new lease on life, only to be embroiled in her
hometown’s violent local politics. Set in Cebu, where Sandoval
originally hails from, the political thriller centers on how the
protagonist’s quiet life mothering a child of a friend who works
overseas and is overturned after she becomes entangled with
a powerful politician who used to be her client in Manila. The
film visualizes the transwoman’s struggles to keep up with
caring for her chosen family, even as she must navigate the
dangerous terrain of local politics.
Her latest work, Shangri-La (2021), a short film
she also wrote, directed, and acted for a Miu Miu campaign,
Women’s Tales, takes a different route in representing intimate
citizenship. The 10-minute short film performs a trans-ing
of Carlos Bulosan’s America is in the Heart by portraying an
24
erotic tale of a woman, a Filipino farmhand during the Great
Depression, as she playfully confesses her most intimate
thoughts to her lover. In this erotic short film, the woman
reveals, through sensuous and almost poetic confessionary, the
various sexual fantasies she imagines doing with her white
American boyfriend to mark their intimate romance, which
would be deemed subversive during a time when interracial
relationships are forbidden in California. The short film
re-envisions and revises America’s history of racial violence
to bring forth alternate futures: where a woman of color
dreams of love set free from boundaries of class, race, gender,
and sexuality as she and her lover are transported from the
confession box to memories and visions of multiple women
across time and space, and back to the earth that both of them
are tilling, lying on the ground while looking at the open-
ended skies glittered by Fourth of July fireworks.
In many ways, both of these works converse with
Lingua Franca, a film about Olivia, an undocumented
transwoman who works as a caregiver for an aging Russian-
Jewish woman named Olga (Lynn Cohen). Set in Brighton,
New York, the film shows the plight of Olivia, who is working
on securing a green card by paying to marry a white American
man, Matthew (Leif Steinert), to legalize her stay in the
US. As her prospects for an arranged marriage with her fake
(Trans)Body of work: (Top) Isabel Sandoval stars as Donna, looking at the
mirror with a crown, in her directorial debut about a transgender woman
moving to a small town (Isabel Sandoval, Señorita, Criterion, 2011); and
(Bottom) Sandoval performs as an immigrant (trans)woman in the 1920s in
America, confessing her innermost desires in a short film campaign under Miu
Miu (Isabel Sandoval, Shangri-La, Miu Miu, 2021)
LONG TAKE
fiancé fall apart, she then becomes close to Olga’s impulsive
grandson, Alex, who just came out of rehab and is trying to
turn a new leaf. Their intimacy then develops into romance,
even though Alex does not yet know that she is a transwoman.
Alex’s discovery of her transness compels him to hide her
passport, only to decide later on to continue the relationship
and promise Olivia marriage and a life of domestic bliss. Olivia
will then have to decide if the life that Alex offers is the kind of
life that she wants for herself and whether the fantasy of white
picket fences that her lover proposes is the kind of security and
belonging that she aspires to and works for in America.
Just like her other films, Lingua Franca reechoes the
things that Sandoval has been ruminating on regarding the
role of sexuality and her transness in thinking about ideas of
belonging. Even though the film carries political overtones of
xenophobia and transphobia in Trump America, “this is not
filmmaking with a megaphone.”6 Instead, the filmmaker chose
to quietly enter into and dwell within the complex emotional
life of Olivia as she navigates the dangers and limited choices
she has as an immigrant transwoman. While the protagonist is
very much structurally excluded, she actively rewrites her own
story by forging intimate bonds and creating possible lifeworlds
through her body and labor. This “drama of interiority”7
ultimately portrays the many ways sexuality and intimacy
redraw the larger theme of belonging in the world through
alternative visions and practices of citizenship.
Olivia, a cinematic trans heroine, and Sandoval, a
trans auteur, both represent what trans scholars and activists in
the Philippines call transPinays. This term combines trans and
Filipina/Pinay to recognize as a distinct group the transwomen
and transfeminist identities in the country and address the
specificities of their challenges and struggles in a postcolonial,
heteropatriarchal, and cisnormative Philippine society.8
However, it is also important to note that both transPinays
are transnational as these diasporic subjects were able to cross
geographic borders in as much as they have already crossed
gender and sexual identities. The trans in transPinay and
transnational here becomes a productive conceptual prefix that
destabilizes the boundedness of gender and nationality. As
Stryker, Currah, and Moore note, the “trans” can be deployed
to “delimit and contain the relationship of ‘trans-’ conceptual
operations to ‘-gender’ statuses and practices in a way” that
“links the questions of space and movement that the term
implies to other critical crossings of categorical territories.”9
Following this provocation of rethinking the trans in
transnationalism, I read Lingua Franca’s attempts to represent
the transnationalism of transPinays, particularly of Sandoval
as a trans immigrant auteur and Olivia as an undocumented
trans immigrant, and articulate how their transness intertwines
with issues of Filipino diaspora in forwarding new ideas of
inclusion, multiculturalism, and global justice. I argue that
the film does so by challenging ideas of cosmopolitanism in
transPinays’ sexual and intimate citizenship practices abroad.
I am deploying alternative models of citizenship here to think
through ideas of global belonging for diasporic and trans
subjects and subjectivities.
I follow Surya Monro and Lorna Warren’s delineation
of sexual citizenship as “the sexual rights of groups, as well as
access to general rights and the impact of this on sexuality.”10
In contrast, intimate citizenship describes the “bundle of
rights concerning people’s choices about what people do with
their bodies, emotions, relationships, gender identities, and
desires.”11 My analysis takes on Lingua Franca through these
categories of citizenship as the film problematizes the ways
sexual citizenship enlarges the practice of cosmopolitanism by
portraying how trans and undocumented immigrants navigate
and challenge the exclusionary policies of mainstream models
of citizenship that structure their precarities in America. I then
study Olivia’s enactments of intimate citizenship by examining
the affective relationships she forges through her labor with
her biological and non-biological families and within her
diasporic trans community. Her work as a breadwinner to
her mother back in her country, as a caregiver to her aging
employer, as a sister to her fellow transPinays in New York, and
even as a lover to Alex illustrate how she actualizes a form of
intimate citizenship that embraces more inclusionary modes of
hospitality and democracy to transform ideas on belonging and
cosmopolitanism.
Undocumented and Unwelcomed
Lingua Franca challenges what Aren Aizura claims
as America’s posturing of “transgender exceptionalism,” which
describes how the empire projects itself to be a progressive
multicultural and cosmopolitan superpower that serves as “a
beacon of liberal freedom where sexual and gender minorities
can find better acceptance than in other parts of the world.”12
Transgender exceptionalism happens whenever the US state
instrumentalizes its acceptance and welcome of diasporic
trans bodies, particularly of trans asylum seekers/refugees, to
buff up the “nationalist logic in which the nation fantasizes
its own superiority, tolerance, and exceptionality in relation
to transgender life, pitted against other nations and ‘cultures’
deemed intolerant, barbaric, transphobic, or homophobic.”13
Olivia, however, is proof that the vulnerability of trans
diasporic subjects persists even if they have settled in the US.
Her vulnerability as an immigrant transwoman comes from
the fact that she is still undocumented, even though she has
been working in New York as a caregiver for several years. The
film shows, for example, Olivia walking on the empty streets
of Brighton, constantly looking over her shoulder even though
no one is following her. The camera here acts like a stalker,
trailing and following Olivia as the police siren blasts in the
background.
25
 LONG TAKE
Followed: Olivia walking alone and paranoid at night
The dread from her illegality is also disruptive,
interrupting the protagonist’s ephemeral moments of comfort
and safety. Her paranoia can be seen in a sequence when Olivia
is enjoying the company of Alex as they stroll around the little
Filipino enclave near their area, happily sharing with her ward’s
son her culture and even her routines in the city. This brief
interlude of joy is immediately broken off as Olivia suddenly
becomes paralyzed with shock as she witnesses a Filipino
publicly arrested by ICE agents.
Sandoval further demonstrates how pervasive Olivia’s
anxiety and fear from surveillance and capture is, to the extent
that the paranoia follows here even in her most mundane
and everyday moments in the city. In one of the film’s most
innocuous sequences, Olivia is shown walking around her
neighborhood in broad daylight for her daily errands as
Trump’s voice trumpeting his racist immigration policies can
be heard non-diegetically in the background. The scene ends
with Olivia inside a café, talking over the phone to her fake
fiancé, telling him that their green card marriage will not push
through.
To think of these experiences as precarity structured
by Olivia’s undocumentation and not her transness would
be to ignore the connections of heteronormativity, sexuality,
and immigration. As Eithne Luibhéid and Karma Chávez
claim, “vulnerability does not affect all migrants equally
since those who are already subalternized due to country of
origin, race, class, ability, religion, gender, and sexuality often
find themselves facing the most difficult conditions before,
during, and after migration.”14 In Olivia’s case, the heightened
precariousness of her illegality intersects with exclusionary
laws that apply to her transgendered identity. This can be seen
in how Olivia and her fellow transPinays in New York have to
contend with the fact that their passports still bear their former
cis-identities.
In one scene, Olivia talks to Trixie (Ivory Aquino)
about her incapacity to secure a fake passport that could bear
her present and more authentic self. After her friend tells her
that they can no longer help her fix a new passport because
26
of all the immigration crackdowns, the protagonist agitatedly
exclaims: “But this isn’t me anymore. Neither my name nor
gender. To think I wouldn’t have had to alter these if they
didn’t go out of their way to pass that damn law back home!”
Olivia’s frustration is palpable here as the illegalization and
delegitimization of her identity by her home country continue
through and buffer the discriminatory immigration laws of
her host country. We can see the violence of such anti-trans
law back in the Philippines and how it crosses the borders
and follows the bodies of transPinays when we witness Trixie
herself being reprimanded by a city hall clerk in New York
when she and her fiancée are securing a marriage license
because her Philippine passport still bears the name and gender
that she is trying to erase.
Beyond the legal violence, what Sandoval explores
in these scenes is the emotional and psychological pitfalls of
deadnaming, legitimized by immigration structures of both
the country of their origin and their country of settlement. As
Mikee Inton-Campbell observes: “this absence of a gender
recognition law in the Philippines keeps trans people in a state
of constant precarity—because our documents do not match
our gender expression, our identities are questioned every
time we deal with institutions that require legal documents.
Dysphoria can also be triggered or exacerbated in trans people
who suffer from this mental condition.”15
Isolated: Olivia is framed as if she is under constant surveillance, even in broad
daylight
Olivia’s struggles expose how the US government fails
immigrant transwomen like her based on the state’s rejection
of their claims for sexual citizenship. It reveals the exclusionary
conditions that render trans lives exploitable and disposable
based on the repudiation of her sexual rights that make an
impact on her status and her well-being abroad. This refusal to
accept their sexual citizenship comes from how undocumented
transwomen like Olivia suffers from state processes that,
according to Eithne Luibhéid, “racializes and (hetero)genders
them in ways that condition their possibilities within labor
markets, the welfare state, and citizenship norms.”16 Perhaps,
LONG TAKE
what is cruel in the particular kind of precarity that Olivia to feel at home in claiming one’s own body and place connects
experiences is not absolute exclusion, as she can still find work the struggles of an undocumented trans woman to finding
and stay in New York despite being undocumented, but the belonging amid the structural forces of geographical and
fact that she has to face the everyday threat of being caught gendered borders that both police “spaces where those who do
by immigration police. As a crucial part of the mechanisms of not ‘belong’ are separated to from those who do.”20
migrant and trans illegalities, the US state deploys the prospect
In Olivia’s attempt to pass as a citizen, she tries
of detention and deportation to ensure that transwomen like
to go through the routines of mainstream citizenship rites,
Olivia become more vulnerable and exploitable as laboring
particularly in marrying Matthew to secure a green card.
bodies.
The film shows the protagonist’s attempts to complete the
Even though they are unable to acquire or retain installments to her fiancé for their paid arrangement, on top
legal papers, they are still not deported because of the state’s of remitting most of her salary to her mother back home.
differential inclusion, which “describes how inclusion in In one of the film’s sequences, the audience witnesses Olivia
a sphere, society, or realm can involve various degrees of diligently archiving her relationship with Matthew, performed
subordination, rule, discrimination, racism, disenfranchisement, by collecting a series of couple shots in a photo book that
exploitation and segmentation.”17 Olivia is still differentially documents their intimacy throughout the three years of their
included as she can access work and gain income, albeit fake relationship. After Olivia places the newest photograph
informally. However, being marked as deportable heightens her of her and her fake fiancé attending Trixie’s wedding, the
precarity as her body becomes flexible to the discriminatory protagonist sarcastically mouths the ritualized statement of
labor market even as she has to face the risks and dangers of marriage ceremonies: “By the power vested in me by the State
capture and expulsion. Despite her deportability, Olivia uses of New York, I now pronounce you”—she breaks for a pregnant
the narrow cracks in the system not just to survive but push pause as the camera pans away with Olivia’s back on the frame,
open the very little space afforded to her. Although the state sitting on her desk as she plays with her pen, before uttering
denies her sexual citizenship, she can practice an intimate form the performative last words of the ritual—“husband and wife.”
of citizenship through the relationships she builds in her bid to
belong in the host society.
From Passing to Belonging
In many scenes in the film, Olivia’s performance of
finding belonging is through walking: walking nonchalantly,
as if she is at home in the place she is inhabiting and passing
through. In this everyday ritual, she tries to perform as a
citizen, as somebody who belongs on the grounds and streets
that she walks on so that she will not stand out and remain
publicly undetectable to state surveillance that might mark her
as a foreigner, an undocumented alien. In short, she tries to
Relationship goals: Olivia collects couple photos for future immigration checks
pass as a citizen.
Lingua Franca does not precisely show and
problematize the politics of gendered passing in Olivia’s
struggle as a transwoman. As the filmmaker says, Olivia depicts This sequence signals the heroine’s awareness of her
“a very particular kind of transness” because she does not
performance of passing as a citizen. She subscribes while still
struggle to prove her womanhood: “She just is.”18 However,
consciously satirizing the rhetoric and rites of passage afforded
her performance of transfemininity is connected to her
by a hetero- and cisnormative state. She reiterates but also
performance to pass as a citizen. In problematizing passing
parodies the pronouncements of a heteropatriarchal state that
as modes of feeling at home both in one’s body and in one’s
legitimizes marriage rituals even as she knows that she has to
mobility and diaspora, Nael Bhanji observes that “in many
pay for and play with the ritual to gain access to citizenship.
trans communities, the pressure to pass, to blend into the
This awareness of marriage as a performance of citizen-passing
mainstream, can be intense. The push from pre-op to post-
runs through the film, showing how Olivia is conscious of how
op, from transitioning to transitioned, from transgressive to fragile this route to citizenship is, no matter how invested she
transfixed, results in the transsexual forever rushing onwards to is in this gateway to belonging. In another scene, Olivia sits
find the space beyond ‘the promise of home on the other side’ alone in a café, listening to Matthew backing out from their
and the possibility of being at home in one’s skin.”19 The quest arranged marriage over the phone. With her plans in disarray,
27
 LONG TAKE
she meets with Trixie, and their conversation reveals that this
is the protagonist’s second failed green card marriage. Olivia
responds with “always a bridesmaid,” poking fun at her own
situation while also revealing how conscious she is about
the limits of her act to pass as a citizen through green card
marriage.
If fake marriage is untenable, then perhaps a promise
of an authentic one, buoyed by genuine feelings of love, might
be just the thing for her. Just as the protagonist’s green card
marriage plan fails, Olivia becomes close to Alex, her elder
ward’s prodigal grandson, who is on his way to embark on a
new life, fresh from rehab. She gets to know the young man
as she tries to teach him how to take care of Olga, which leads
to the two sleeping together. At the height of their romance,
however, Alex discovers Olivia’s transness after his friend sees
her passport bearing her past male identity. Confused and
fearing that he must confront Olivia, Alex hides her passport
and then lies about a house break-in to convince her to stop
looking further. As Olivia confides to Trixie about Alex’s
flimsy story about how her passport got stolen, Trixie suddenly
suggests Alex as a possible choice. After all, he seems to be
genuinely in love with her friend. Olivia, after a pregnant
pause, protests, “But he is a good man,” repeating those words
as if she was the one that needed convincing, not Trixie.
Dream home: In a motel room, Alex shares with Olivia, the kind of family he
envisioned for them
Olivia would, later on, have to contend with this
choice, as Alex confesses his love after he takes her out for an
overnight romantic date. After a day of strolling around Coney
Island and dancing intimately under bright pink lights, the
audience sees the couple entering their motel room. Stumbling
towards the little motel bed, Alex excitedly proposes to Olivia
to start a family by asking her how many children she would
like. She coolly answers, “two,” looking at Alex nonchalantly
as the young man demands more kids from her in the future.
Lying on their bed and bathed by the purple LED lights of
their cramped motel room, Alex lists down all the things that
he imagines that the two of them will be doing in the future
28
as husband and wife: a house teeming with four kids, trips to
Cancun every winter, and Olivia not having to work anymore
as Alex brings home the bacon.
As the camera pans closer to Olivia, the audience
sees her dead eyes even as Alex offers her the white picket
fence fantasy. She will not have to pay for a man to marry
her for her green card, and she will finally have access to
her American dream of belonging, at least what passes for a
version of belonging: a middle-class fantasy of a biological
family. However, it seems like Olivia knows this is too good to
be true even in her drunken stupor. She is, after all, incapable
of sustaining such fantasy as she is a transwoman that does
not follow the “straight time:” or the naturalized chronology
of biological and social reproduction centered around
heteronormative ideas of “familial and national stability” earned
in the proper “timing” of childhood, adulthood, marriage,
progeny, and child-rearing.21
Waking up from the hangover of this fantasy, Alex
reveals that he was the one who hid her passport before
Rude awakening: Alex confronts Olivia about her missing passport
bargaining his promise of a happy-ever-after for Olivia’s
forgiveness, telling her none of what he did matters if she
agrees to marry him. But Olivia seems to have already
made peace with her choice. The camera frames this quiet
confrontation through a play of perspectives through the motel
mirrors. The scene is framed like a triptych, with the folding
mirror framing the couple as if they are looking in different
directions in the room, even if they are, in fact, just looking at
each other. Olivia stares at her crying lover blankly, expressing
her refusal to fall into Alex’s promises through a withdrawn
look on her face.
Olivia’s decision attests to the protagonist’s
understanding of her own body and her own claims to
belonging. She turns down a prospect of citizenship that never
really allows her to be at home in her own space and her own
skin. As Christian Benitez observes, “what seems to be a plain
rejection might as well be construed as a devoted confession:
LONG TAKE
that for Olivia, the body—her body—cannot be left to owe
to anyone; or that perhaps, her desires resist having anything
to do with the duress inflicted by institutions, as well as their
vocabularies.”22 She renounces the heterosexual, middle-class
fantasy that, for her, only passes for, but never truly means,
belonging. In this way, Olivia enacts her version of intimate
citizenship, with this refusal as a sign of agency, her “right to
choose what to do with her life, body, identity, feelings, and
relationship.”23
Transgressive intimacies
If the promise of truly belonging in America is not
in the realm of romance with a straight man, Olivia finds this
in the many intimacies and emotional bonds she forges with
other women in her life. Here, it is essential to examine the
emotional relationships that the protagonist creates, sustains,
and nurtures to understand how she stakes her claim to her
place in the world through her body and labor of care.
Right at the film’s start, the audience gets introduced
to the protagonist’s role as somebody who dispenses care
for two women: her mother back home and Olga, her ward
in Brighton. The film opens with Olivia waking to a phone
call in the wee hours of the night. As she moves around her
dark bedroom talking to her mother back in the Philippines,
the camera pans outside the streets, showing the closed train
station and empty streets, as the audience listens to Olivia’s
exhausted voice listening to her mother’s stories about their
hometown in Cebu and her requests for the next remittance to
come through earlier. This sequence is quickly followed by the
scene the next morning, depicting a lost and confused aging
woman inside a narrow kitchen, calling for a woman because
she feels like she is in a stranger’s house. On the other end of
the phone call, Olivia talks to Olga and guides her out of her
disorientation.
Both of these scenes portray Olivia navigating and
connecting two realms of caregiving: one back home as a
breadwinner to her mother and the other in Brighton as a
caregiver to her geriatric ward. In dominant scholarship about
transnational care work, Olivia is positioned as a central
figure in the global care chain, where women from the Third
World migrate to take on care work for First World women
while other women in the Third World take care of their
left-behind families.24 However, framing this transnational
flow of care work only as a globalized chain of resources,
capital, and labor between women of Global North and South
only “essentializes care work as solely a feminized realm,”
which leads to “the reproduction of particular notions of the
nuclear family and bounded nation-state.”25 While normative
notions of gender and sexuality that produce depictions
of Filipina migrant women as displaced caretakers and
mothering workers neatly fits within the analytics of unequal
distribution in the transnational flow of care labor, they also
tend to uphold problematic ideas of maternal sacrifice for
their home and homeland based on heteronormativity and
biological determinism. As Martin Manalansan points out,
such understanding of the labor of care constrained within
the heteronormative continuity from “the naturalized and
normalized conceptions of motherhood, domesticity, child care,
and reproduction” back home to the transnational care work
they render abroad usually excludes the struggles and narratives
of diasporic queer and trans bodies involved in this line of
work.26
Beyond challenging the heteropatriarchal ideologies
that sustain care work, it is also crucial to expand the idea
of the value of the labor of care beyond the capitalist order
of uneven flow of resources and capital in the global care
chain. Feminist scholars of ethics of care have broadened the
notion of care beyond its transnational organization not only
as privatized labor within the global migration regimes but
also as an essential resource for interdependence and altruism
that human societies need to cultivate.27 While critiquing
the commodification of care and its denigration as a form of
informal or supplementary labor, many ethics of care scholars
propose care as a basis for “ethical and political behavior that
addresses inequalities” by recognizing and cultivating people’s
need to render and receive care “beyond the realm of their
home and their intimate others.”28 In this sense, care, whether
paid labor or unpaid obligation, is conceptualized not only
as essential labor of social reproduction but as an ethical
responsibility for others.
These queer and feminist interventions on the labor
and ethics of care are central in understanding how Olivia
performs transgressive intimacies in her care work as her
practice of intimate citizenship. How does a transwoman
reconfigure these hetero- and cisnormative notions of labor of
care? How does Olivia, in Lingua Franca, trans-es care? Here,
it is crucial to analyze how Olivia challenges the hetero- and
cisnormativity attached to the labor of care she dispenses both
to her mother back home and to Olga in her newfound home.
The film establishes the closeness of the caregiver
and her ward, to the point that Olga treats Olivia like her own
grandchild. The aging woman depends on her caregiver for
everything, and it is, in fact, Olivia who teaches Alex how to
take care of her grandmother. In many ways, Olivia is more
like a family to Olga than her own family. One passing scene
shows a screen split into two, framed by the apartment’s walls
and open doors, with Olga’s grandchildren on the right, silently
looking over their phones while Olivia diligently attends to
their grandmother’s needs in Olga’s room.
It is necessary to understand that the exchange of
care and attention between the caregiver and her elderly ward
is never just one-way. Olivia’s deep connection to Olga allows
29
 LONG TAKE LONG TAKE

A split frame of families: the grandchildren (right) and the older woman and
her caregiver (left)
her to find a home in her elder ward’s place. Olga even shares
her life with Olivia, telling her of her life as a Russian Jewish
immigrant in New York and how she begins her life with
her husband. As Alex reads her grandfather’s love letter to
Olga, the film shifts to Olivia daydreaming of erotic scenes
with the young man as the letter’s content gets translated into
Olivia’s mother tongue, Cebuano. Even though this fantasy
scene intimates the beginning of the protagonist’s desire for
her ward’s grandson, it also illustrates how Olivia imagines a
deeper connection with Olga’s history as a displaced immigrant
finding her bearings in a new city.
This same reciprocity of care, no matter how uneven,
is also hinted at in the kind of relationship that Olivia holds
with her mother back home. Despite their calls filled with
requests for financial support, Olivia’s mother tries to give back
by checking up on her daughter, reminding her constantly to
take care since news about immigration crackdowns in Trump
America reaches their little island in the Philippines. She
also assuages Olivia every time her daughter’s plan of getting
citizenship fails.
These instances between Olivia and Olga and Olivia
and her mother show mutual exchanges of care, no matter how
unequal these flows of care might be. Francisco-Menchavez
deploys the concept of multidirectional care to pay attention
to the various labors and currencies of care that diasporic
Filipinas activate “to define their new family conditions across
borders.”29 Often, studies on the circulation of care are fixated
on the linear relation between migrant family members toward
families left behind or between a caregiver and her employer.
Yet, both left-behind families and employers also reciprocate
the labor of care, albeit in various degrees. Multidirectional care
allows for a nuanced understanding of “how care is deployed,
retracted, and redirected “within the dynamic and circular
relationships between transnational families over time.”30
These scenes also allow us to rethink what counts as family
and the many ways of doing family. Olivia’s deep kinship
with Olga illustrates how family can be unmoored away from
heteronormative modes and biological assumptions. Olivia has
become as much, if not more, as a family to Olga as Olga is to
Olivia.
Outside the frame of biology and heteronormativity,
Olivia also finds a family among her community of
transPinays. In many of the film scenes, the audience witnesses
how important her fellow diasporic trans sisters are to the
protagonist. They become her source of comfort and help in
times of need and distress. Trixie connects Olivia to people who
can provide her with a new passport, while Thelma provides
her contacts to men who might be willing to get paid to marry
her for a green card. More than this, the film depicts a genuine
familial bond among their group of immigrant transwomen.
Trixie stands in as Olivia’s sister, acting as her emotional
support each time the protagonist encounters problems with
her undocumentation. We are also given a glimpse of their little
community at parties that Olivia attends with her trans sisters
and their cis husbands. The transPinays become a vital resource
for each other, standing as their proxy family in a place where
they are generally excluded and disenfranchised.
This community of transPinays works as a kind
of family built upon the community of care, which Valerie
Francisco-Menchavez describes as “the care work exchanged
among migrants,” which “yields a new ‘sisterhood’ with new
‘daughters’ and ‘mothers’ incorporated into what migrants call
their ‘family away from home.’”31 Repurposing how queer
communities build their found families and how black women
mobilize their whole community as “othermothers” in family-
making, she rethinks how migrant Filipino women rework
notions of family in their practice of fellowship and migrant
community-building in the diaspora. As opposed to the vertical
kinship structure of the biological family in the continuum
of the global care chain, the multidirectionality of care work
in the community of care takes the “form of reorganizing
care horizontally, from migrants to other migrants,” relying
on “the subjectivities produced by the liminality of migrancy,
undocumentation, and precariousness as the social sphere in
which they care for one another.”32
Mother-daughter: Olivia talks patiently to Olga to calm her
It is through Olivia’s performance of intimate
citizenship through her labor of care that she stakes her
claim on her place in the diaspora. By building transgressive
intimacies with her mother, her elder ward, and her trans
sisters, which redefine what gets to be valued as care
and who counts as a family in migration, she trans-es
an idea of cosmopolitanism through her labor of care.
As Wendy Sarvasy and Patrizia Longo observe, migrant
women like Olivia can adapt and settle in global cities
and perform “a form of cosmopolitanism from the bottom
up” and “deterritorialized citizenship” by entering into a
“universal community” of “global interdependence” based
on “transnational relations that address daily care needs.”33
By giving and receiving care, caregivers like Olivia practice
a “thick form of citizenship” that negotiates the structural
effects of displacement in their home and host countries by
building relationships buoyed by the ethics of reciprocity and
mutuality.34
Trans-ing cosmopolitanism
The film’s last moments offer a glimpse of an
open-ended future for Olivia through an expression of hope
towards finally belonging—only this time, on her own terms.
The closing sequence gives a montage of Brighton streets at
dawn, as Olivia’s voicemail plays in the background, telling
her mother not to worry as she has already found a new job
and a new way of securing a green card. In her native tongue,
the protagonist assures her mother that she is okay before
punctuating it with a sense of grounded optimism for the
future: “We’ll make it eventually.” Olivia’s closing line is an
opening up to the possibility of finally finding her place in
this city, as her words echo in its open roads and empty train
station. She invokes here the promise of “making it,” a sense
of belonging that depends on her own making, just as she
has been doing for the past years despite her very precarious
circumstances. This belonging is sustained by a sense of
community shaped by a transgressive practice of care and
intimacy, with the labor of care coming from the support of
the people she genuinely cares for and who have reciprocated
her care and attention.
Through Olivia, the film shows the transformative
figure of a trans diasporic figure who “indexes a paradoxical
positionality that is neither here nor there but in-between
Carlos M. Piocos III is a Professor of Literary and Cultural Studies at the Department of Literature of De La Salle University
(DLSU). He is also an associate for poetry and cultural studies at Bienvenido N. Santos Creative Writing Center and a research
fellow of the Southeast Asia Research Center of DLSU. He authored a book, Narratives, Affect and Politics of Southeast Asian
Migration (2021), and two poetry collections: Corpus (2010) and Kung ang Siyudad ay Pag-ibig (2019), and has edited and
translated an anthology of select Indonesian migrant women’s fiction, Mga Bantay Salakay sa Loob ng Aking Bahay (2020).
and in-process” while also “epitomizing a kind of situated
cosmopolitanism.”35 By looking at the complexities of
Olivia’s struggles and her agency, the film showcases how an
undocumented trans woman of color deconstructs mainstream
ideas of citizenship and enacts new ways of imagining
belonging unhinged from heteronormative ideas of the labor
of care, family, and citizenship. Through intimate citizenship,
Olivia could find family and practice alternative modes of
caring and community that challenge hetero- and cisnormative
ideologies of belonging. Through her transgressive intimacies,
the protagonist “not only crosses over borders of identity but
also highlights and challenges their geographical determinism,
the primacy of a Western view of selfhood, citizenship, and
jurisdiction, and the global political and economic regimes that
emerge from that primacy.”36
Finally, Lingua Franca also illustrates that the
term “trans” can be expanded to interrogate ideas of
cosmopolitanism critically. In the process of trans-ing
cosmopolitanism, as seen in the film, the “trans” can be
deployed “not only as a critical optic, practice, or way of reading
the texts, bodies, and individuals that operate outside and
beyond the (gendered) regime of justice and state citizenship.
It can also be a crucial tool for addressing the complexity
of ‘who’ counts as a civic subject or citizen worldwide, and
for developing new habits of reading global justice.”37 And
perhaps, Olivia’s words of eventually “making it” attest to a
powerful trans futurity: a horizon of potentialities that the
interventions that trans-ing can bring to what belonging to the
world and its universal ideals of global justice and democracy
can mean, especially for those who reside at the margins of
class, race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality.
Ending with hope: Olivia reassures her mother over the phone as the camera
shows scenes of Brighton

30 31
 LONG TAKE
Endnotes
1 Carole Horst, “Immigration and Transgender Issues Fuel Isabel
Sandoval’s Drama Lingua Franca,” Variety, August 26 2020, variety.
com/2020/film/spotlight/isabel-sandoval-lingua-franca-1234749951/.
2 Here, I am particularly redeploying Halberstam’s idea of “cinematic
trans gaze” that is embodied not in films with a trans subject that are
still “committed to seducing the straight gaze” but rather in cinematic
texts that are “thoroughly committed to the transgender look, and it
opens up formally and thematically a new mode of envisioning gender
mobility” (79). Further, she explains that this kind of cinematic trans
gaze is important in “truly independent productions within which gender
ambiguity is not a trap or a device but part of the production of new
forms of heroism, vulnerabilities, visibility, and embodiment” (96). Judith
Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies, Subcultural
Lives (New York and London: New York University Press, 2005).
3 Here, I follow notions of cosmopolitanism by looking at how
globalization and mobility have opened the world for border crossing
peoples to live and thrive with openness, diversity, and inclusion. See
Ulf Hannerz, “Cosmopolitanism,” in A Companion to the Anthropology
of Politics, eds. David Nugent and Joan Vincent (Oxford: Blackwell,
2004); Kwame Anthony Appiah, Cosmopolitanism: Ethics in a World of
Strangers (London and New York: W. W., Norton & Company, Inc.,
2006). I, however, particularly follow feminist and Third World scholars
that challenge and destabilize elitist models of cosmopolitanism by
interrogating the ways lower-class workers, women, migrants, and other
minorities claim global citizenship through their social practices that
enrich ideas about democracy, multiculturalism, inclusion, and global
justice. See Pheng Cheah, Inhuman Conditions: On Cosmopolitanism and
Human Rights (Boston: Harvard University Press, 2006); Pnina Werbner,
“Vernacular Cosmopolitanism,” Theory, Culture & Society 23, no. 2-3
(2006); Stuart Hall and Pnina Werbner, “Cosmopolitanism, Globalisation
and Diaspora,” in Anthropology and the New Cosmopolitanism: Rooted,
Feminist and Vernacular Perspectives, ed. Pnina Werbner (Oxford and New
York: Berg, 2008); Pnina Werbner, “Global Pathways: Working Class
Cosmopolitans and the Creation of Transnational Ethnic Worlds,” Social
Anthropology 7, no. 1 (1999).
4 Susan Stryker, Paisley Currah, and Lisa Jean Moore, “Introduction:
Trans-, Trans, or Transgender?” Women’s Studies Quarterly 36, no. 3/4
(2008): 13.
5 Defined by Leung as “trans-identified filmmakers… whose works are
committed not only to telling stories meant consciously for a trans or
trans-literate audience but also to aesthetic and genre experimentation”
(87). Helen Hok-sze Leung, “Film,” TSQ: Transgender Studies Quarterly 1,
no. 1-2 (2014).
6 Sandoval in Klarize Medenilla, “Fil-Am Filmmaker Isabel Sandoval on
Lingua Franca, Cinematic Authenticity and the Art of Subtlety,” Asian
Journal, August 26 2020, asianjournal.com/magazines/mdwk-magazine/
fil-am-filmmaker-isabel-sandoval-on-lingua-franca-cinematic-
authenticity-and-the-art-of-subtlety/.
7 Carlos Aguilar, “Subversive Sensuality: Isabel Sandoval on Lingua
Franca,” Roger Ebert, August 26 2020, rogerebert.com/interviews/
subversive-sensuality-isabel-sandoval-on-lingua-franca.
8 See Brenda Rodriguez Alegre, “Transpinay,” in The SAGE Encyclopedia of
Trans Studies, eds. Abbie E. Goldberg and Genny Beemyn (California:
SAGE Publications, 2021). For a discussion of various trans and gender-
variant vocabularies in the country, see Jaya Jacobo, “Philippines, Gender
Categories,” in The SAGE Encyclopedia of Trans Studies, eds. Abbie E.
Goldberg and Genny Beemyn (California: SAGE Publications, 2021).
9 Stryker, Currah, and Moore, “Introduction: Trans-, Trans, or
Transgender?”, 11-12.
10 Surya Monro and Lorna Warren, “Transgendering Citizenship,”
Sexualities 7, no. 3 (2004): 348.
11 Ibid.
12 Aren Z. Aizura, “Affective Vulnerability and Transgender Exceptionalism:
Norma Ureiro in Transgression,” Trans Studies: The Challenge to Hetero/
Homo Normativities, eds. Yolanda Martínez-San Miguel and Sarah Tobias
(New Brunswick, New Jersey, and London: Rutgers University Press,
2016), 123.
13 Aizura, “Affective Vulnerability and Transgender Exceptionalism: Norma
Ureiro in Transgression,” 126.
14 Eithne Luibhéid and Karma R. Chávez, “Introduction,” Queer and
Trans Migrations: Dynamics of Illegalization, Detention, and Deportation,
32
eds. Eithne Luibhéid and Karma R. Chávez (Urbana, Chicago, and
Springfield: University of Illinois Press, 2017), 3.
15 Mikee Inton-Campbell, “Precarity and Motherhood in Philippine Trans
Cinema,” Akda: Asian Journal of Literature, Culture, Performance 1, no. 3
(2022): 47.
16 Eithne Luibhéid, “’Treated neither with Respect nor with Dignity’:
Contextualizing Queer and Trans Migrant ‘Illegalization,’ Detention, and
Deportation,” in Queer and Trans Migrations: Dynamics of Illegalization,
Detention, and Deportation, eds. Eithne Luibhéid and Karma R. Chávez
(Urbana, Chicago, and Springfield: University of Illinois Press, 2017), 22.
17 Ibid., 26.
18 Sandoval in Lauren Wissot, “In Opposition to ‘A Very Particular Mode
of Transness’: Isabel Sandoval on Lingua Franca,” Filmmaker, August
27, 2020, filmmakermagazine.com/110192-in-opposition-to-a-very-
particular-mode-of-transness-isabel-sandoval-on-lingua-franca/.
19 Nael Bhanji, “Trans/scriptions: Homing Desires, (Trans)sexual
Citizenship and Racialized Bodies,” in Transgender Migrations: The Bodies,
Borders, and Politics of Transition, ed. Trystan T. Cotten (London and New
York: Routledge, 2012), 161-162.
20 Aren Z. Aizura, “Of Borders and Homes: The Imaginary Community of
(Trans)Sexual Citizenship,” Inter-Asia Cultural Studies 7, no. 2 (2006):
289.
21 Judith Halberstam, In a Queer Time and Place: Transgender Bodies,
Subcultural Lives (New York and London: New York University Press,
2005), 5.
22 Christian Jil R. Benitez, “Aftercare,” Young Critics Circle Film Desk,
December 20, 2020, yccfilmdesk.wordpress.com/2020/12/20/aftercare/.
23 Elżbieta H. Oleksy, “Citizenship Revisited,” in Intimate Citizenships:
Gender, Sexualities, Politics, ed. Elżbieta H. Oleksy (New York and
London: Routledge, 2009), 3.
24 See Arlie Hochschild, “Global Care Chains and Emotional Surplus
Value,” in On the Edge: Living with Global Capitalism, eds. Will Hutton
and Anthony Giddens (London: Sage Publishers, 2000).
25 Minh T. N. Nguyen, Roberta Zavoretti, and Joan Tronto, “Beyond the
Global Care Chain: Boundaries, Institutions and Ethics of Care,” Ethics
and Social Welfare 11, no. 3 (2017): 200, doi.org/10.1080/17496535.2017.
1300308.
26 Martin F. Manalansan IV, “Queer Intersections: Sexuality and Gender in
Migration Studies,” The International Migration Review 40, no. 1 (2006):
238.
27 See Joan C. Tronto, Caring Democracy: Markets, Equality, and Justice (New
York: New York University Press, 2013).
28 Nguyen, Zavoretti, and Tronto, “Beyond the Global Care Chain:
Boundaries, Institutions and Ethics of Care,” 201.
29 Valerie Francisco-Menchavez, “Researching Queenila and Living
In-Between: Multi-Sited Ethnography, Migrant Epistemology and
Transnational Families,” Migration and Development 9, no. 1 (2020): 60.
30 Francisco-Menchavez, “Researching Queenila and Living In-Between:
Multi-Sited Ethnography, Migrant Epistemology and Transnational
Families,” 62.
31 Valerie Francisco-Menchavez, The Labor of Care: Filipina Migrants and
Transnational Families in the Digital Age (Chicago: University of Illinois
Press, 2018), 14.
32 Ibid., 97.
33 Wendy Sarvasy and Patrizia Longo, “The Globalization of Care:
Kant’s World Citizenship and Filipina Migrant Domestic Workers,”
International Feminist Journal of Politics 6, no. 3 (2004): 400.
34 Sarvasy and Longo, “The Globalization of Care: Kant’s World
Citizenship and Filipina Migrant Domestic Workers,” 402.
35 Song Hwee Lim, “Is the Trans- in Transnational the Trans- in
Transgender?,” New Cinemas: Journal of Contemporary Film 5, no. 1
(2007): 50.
36 Jessica Berman, “Is the Trans in Transnational the Trans in Transgender?,”
Modernism/modernity 24, no. 2 (2017): 238.
37 Ibid, 239.
33
 SHORT TAKE
The unity is submarine breathing air, our problem is how to study the fragments/whole.
F
ilmmaker Martin Edralin’s Islands (2021)
screened at the 2021 edition of South by
Southwest in March via streaming due to the
pandemic. Inkoo Kang, writing for The Hollywood Reporter,
ended her film review with the line: “No man has to be an
island, no matter how adrift he may feel.”1
If islands are generally viewed as lithospheric outcrops
in oceans, Islands touches on isolation and solitude in a sea of
unfamiliarity. Instead of actual subcontinental lands, the islands
in Islands tell the stories of the lives of diasporic individuals
living in a foreign territory and their (re)construction of
familiar home spaces. The film centers on one man’s alienation
from the social world he inhabits and calls home and how he
comes to grips with personal losses and keeps moving.
Though the putative island symbolizes isolation and
being cut off from the social world, Islands is also about forging
connections and charting one’s cartographic line in a vast ocean
of disparate bodies, connected yet also alone. Or in the context
of migrant families: “like being home and abroad at the same
time; simultaneously foreign and native.”2
Islands is about a Filipino family in the diaspora in
pre-pandemic Toronto. While the film is ostensibly a full-
length family drama, Edralin peppers the narrative with offbeat
humor. As with most films featuring a cast of non-professional
actors playing principal and supporting roles, Islands appears
like a well-photographed home movie: vivid, awkward, funny,
off-kilter. I call it an exilic mumblecore. Edralin calls his film:
“a slower pace [film] with older actors. It’s not a sexy film that
people will rush to theatres to see.”3 Joshua (Rogelio Balagtas)
is a shy, single, and middle-aged son of Reynaldo (Esteban
Comilang) and Alma (Vangie Alcasid). The older adults are
34
There is no world, there are only islands.
- Jacques Derrida, The Beast and the Sovereign, vol. II, 2011
- Kamau Brathwaite, Caribbean Man in Space and Time, 1975
I’ll be searching everywhere
Just to find someone to care
I’ll be looking every day, I know I’m gonna find a way
- Jimmy Ruffin, What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?, 1967
both retired and spend much of their leisure time attending
and participating in gatherings peopled by expatriated Filipinos
from their locale. Joshua’s constant constipated look signals his
being out of place in social gatherings but especially for being
infantilized. An aging single man facing the prospect of living
alone, he routinely cares for his elderly father after his mother’s
demise. A visiting distant cousin—Marisol (Sheila Lotuaco)—
is summoned to care for the ailing father, setting the stage for
the collision of two “islands”—that of Joshua and Marisol.
This essay explores and investigates the diasporic
experiences of Filipinos in Canada. It examines and analyzes
the emotional geographies of diasporic lives. More specifically,
it investigates the entanglements of two similar yet different
individuals within the context of a wintry Canadian
landscape—at once forbidding and welcoming. Mindful of the
myriad stories of Filipino migrants everywhere, my interest
lies in the exemplification of Joshua’s life in Toronto as Islands
spotlights his diasporic melancholia and need for intimacy and
Out of place in diaspora. All images are used with permission
SHORT TAKE
connection. As caring and care-giving figure prominently in
Islands, I also touch on various iterations and performativities
of care in the story: reciprocity of care, informal and invisible
care, and care ethics. This essay shows how caring and “care-
ful” geographies serve as a connective throughline in Islands
that simultaneously unite and separate entities, not unlike
topological islands. Because Edralin’s film title invites more
than one interpretation as regards its textual meaning, I am
proposing a discursive and postcolonial discussion of Islands by
foregrounding the flows, tides, and slippages that contribute
to ideational understanding of the formation of islands. I am
drawing from the literature on non-Western island studies,
chiefly Kamau Brathwaite’s tidal dialectics,4 Epeli Hau’ofa’s
“sea of islands,”5 and tiny topo-cartographies as realized and
recast from postcolonial lenses that underscore currents and
ruptures and troubled connections. Finally, I hope to provide
a counternarrative to the notion of island-as-isolation in
relation to Islands, particularly Joshua. Much like the non-
Western postcolonial writings of Brathwaite and Hau’ofa, there
is interconnectedness and fluidity of relations that defy the
Cartesian spatialities promoted by explorers and writers from
Europe and North America. The Joshua-as-an-island trope is
reworked to refuse a neat resolution.
Toronto-based Filipino-Canadian filmmaker Martin
Edralin wrote, directed, and produced Islands. Prior to this,
he directed and helmed short films. One of these shorts
Refusing island-as-isolation trope in Islands
is Hole (2014)—about a differently-abled man seeking
intimacy—which received critical attention. Islands was
originally set to be filmed in the Philippines, but the funding
Edralin obtained necessitated that his project be filmed in
Canada. Although he visited the archipelagic home base of
his parents a few times, Edralin admitted that he does not
really know how to live in the Philippines, yet his idiomatic
understanding of Filipino life in Toronto allowed him a
front-seat experience. In an interview in 2021, he stated:
[F]or Islands we could really color it with the houses
we know and the family relationships. It all feels so
natural. Even though I was on set, when I watched
the movie for the first time I could smell the food in
the scenes.6
In another interview, Edralin stated emphatically that to
him, Islands firmly locates itself as a Canadian film even
if the language is mostly in Filipino. In the current debate
that escalated into a culture war over a catch-all identity-
based concept of Filipinx—simultaneously a signifier and a
signified—it is important to situate those who interrogate it,
what parameters and conditions of possibility ground Filipino-
ness, as well as the geographical space that is considered their
lived-in spaces. In the case of Islands, the national origin of the
film, when viewed by non-Filipinos, can be a less vexing debate
if “the narrative assists in the construction (and perpetuation)
of the ontologically authentic.”7 But that is only one part of the
conversation in the ocean of possibilities that relate to various
ideas of nation and identities.
The Moral Geographies of Caring
Joshua becomes the de facto care-giver of Reynaldo by
assuming his mother’s role—a role that scholars call reciprocity
of care.8 This form of “giving back” accentuates the parent-child
relationalities where it is the child who looks after the aging
parents. Edralin, in an interview, said:
In many Asian cultures, we [younger generations]
take on the responsibility of taking care of our
parents. We don’t put them in seniors’ homes. And
that’s harder to balance with the independence and
pace of life in the West.9
In Islands, Marisol’s arrival in Toronto sets the stage for
Joshua to re-map his lifeworld and reassign the work involved
in caring for his father. Care-giving as a social practice is
determined by the creative strategies of care-givers in both
professional and family settings. This is especially true for
end-of-life care and how aging and dementia are generally
viewed and perceived. Reynaldo’s near-catatonia after his wife’s
passing requires special care from his son, akin to prolonging
a parent’s life as a moral duty, a familial bond. With Marisol’s
assiduous ministration of Reynaldo, Joshua awakens to a strong
yet unarticulated set of feelings towards his father’s care-giver.
If Joshua is a proverbial island floating amidst ocean currents
in a vast waterscape, he now sees a possible connection to
another individual who exhibits the same attributes he (thinks
he) embodies. When Joshua brings up monetary remuneration
for Marisol’s care-giving as recompense, Marisol refuses the
offer by citing her own familial connection and solidarity with
Joshua’s father while simultaneously refusing her paid care-
35
 SHORT TAKE
giver role. Marisol is engaged in invisible and informal care
through her silence—a form of hidden social geographies of
care that refuses to be acknowledged as care.
Jeff Popke (2006) reintroduced the concept of care
ethics, where caring is seen not merely as an activity but as
a relational connection to others. It is premised on mutual
obligations and relations of trust. In Joshua’s case, the ethics
of care for his father—a father in diaspora—allows him to
perform family-related duties of reciprocal care that underscore
complex relations of emotion and welfare. Or, as Popke
elaborates on this care-centered approach: “[It] stands opposed
to the autonomous rational subject of individual rights and
responsibilities.”10 Joshua sees a kindredness to Marisol’s
affective and embodied care-giving towards his father. Joshua
also indulges in fantasies of being romantically taken care of
Caring for the care-giver
by Marisol, hoping that her invisible and informal approach
to caring can be affectively transferred to him. A feminist
subtext can be argued that in Islands, caring is reserved—
even expected—for women instead of it being a mutual
accountability and responsibility among family members.
Feminist geographer Victoria Lawson argued:
We all receive care, and throughout our lives, many of
us will also give care… [C]are is society’s work in the
sense that care is absolutely central to our individual
and collective survival.11
Isolation and Connection
In discussing the topo-cartographies of islands, I
draw from the works of Kamau Brathwaite—a Caribbean poet
from Barbados—especially the recuperation of tidal dialectics
(or tidalectics) in elucidating the island becomings and, in the
case of Islands, of Joshua and his post-romantic entanglements.
36
SHORT TAKE
Tidalectics resists the Western propensity to synthesize and
create linear stories to discipline knowledge and information.
Through Brathwaite’s poems, tides are cyclical, with continual
movement and the “complex and shifting entanglement
between sea and land, diaspora and indigeneity, and routes and
roots.”12
While the film’s title is arguably both a homage to
the Philippine archipelago’s numerous islands, it also refers to
the seemingly lonely and isolated lives in diaspora of Joshua
and Marisol that resemble an island. Islands as outcrops of
a lithosphere or as pieces of land surrounded by water were
always thought of as symbolizing entities bereft of connection,
alone, and presumed as lonely. The story of Joshua-as-an-island The broken-hearted dodges any form of sociality Unity is sub-marine
living in Toronto with his aging parents at the start of the film
revolves around the quotidian routine and mundane rituals
executed without emotion, verve, or zest for life. Working
Like Joshua in Islands, what is ultimately a subversive Endnotes
as a janitor, his already introverted life finds a job that limits
counter-narrative is Joshua’s “sub-marine” connections that
communication, working silently and efficiently, dodging forms 1 Inkoo Kang, “‘Islands’: Film Review | SXSW 2021,” The Hollywood
are not visible, like island outcrops in the ocean, but entangled
of sociality. He is someone out of place in any given space. Reporter, March 16, 2021, accessed on September 27, 2022, www.
below the surface that eludes “scientific” factuality about how hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-reviews/islands-film-review-
As though submerged in his own world, Joshua nevertheless
islands are seen. Fijian writer Epeli Hau’ofa articulated a “sea sxsw-2021-4144592/.
engages in sexual self-pleasure as a release and a regular form
of islands” rather than the common notion of separate and 2 Joseph Palis, “Of Non-Places and No Man’s Lands,” Aether: The Journal of
of physical exercise: walking on a treadmill. He is mobile, but Media Geography 1, no. 1 (2007): 47.
stand-alone islands. In his conception, Hau’ofa recuperates
he is not going anywhere. 3 Darren Wiesner, “Talent on Tap – Martin Edralin creates Islands,”
a non-Western view of islands not from the perspective of Hollywood North Magazine, April 15, 2022, accessed on September 27,
When Joshua’s mother passes away, his loneliness land outcrops in the water but as sea, bringing various islands 2022, hnmag.ca/interview/talent-on-tap-martin-edralin-creates-islands/.
and isolation become even more magnified. Out of familial together.14 Much like Joshua and the multitudinous islands 4 Kamau Brathwaite, The Arrivants: A New World Trilogy (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1967).
duty and respect for his father, Joshua initially takes care of now floating within his Toronto home space.
5 Epeli Hau’ofa, “Our Sea of Islands,” The Contemporary Pacific 6 no. 1
his remaining parent. Although he has a brother married to (1994): 148.
While it may be disingenuous to disavow a joyful
a white woman, Joshua’s circle of friends is not wide—he is
ending for the broken-hearted Joshua in Islands, the implied 6 Karl Delos Santos, “Director and writer Martin Edralin talks his history-
merely an extension of his family. When Marisol enters the making SXSW film ‘Islands’,” Smash Cut Reviews, March 13, 2021,
conviviality in the narrative’s last frames nonetheless teases and
scene midway through the film’s narrative, the lonely Joshua accessed on September 27, 2022, smashcutreviews.com/martin-edralin-
resists tying the storyline neatly for the needed catharsis of the islands-sxsw-interview/.
becomes infatuated with her. When he tentatively proposes a
film audience. Islands offered no statements, only questions. 7 Palis, “Of Non-Places and No Man’s Lands,” 46.
romantic liaison, Marisol gently rebuffs him. Broken-hearted,
What becomes of the broken-hearted? What new avenues of 8 Anna Janssen, “Who Cares for Whom? Reciprocity of Care at the End of
he retreats to his impenetrable shell once more, only to be
caring opened up for Joshua after witnessing Marisol’s care- Life,” Journal of Palliative Care & Medicine 2, no. 7 (2012): 5.
shaken from it when his father eventually passes on. With
giving? Is island still a useful signifier to describe Joshua now 9 Grace Han, “Interview with Martin Edralin: ‘[Islands] is a Canadian
Marisol’s exit in search of a meaningful life and to chart her movie to me’,”Asian Movie Pulse, March 17, 2021, accessed on September
that he finds possibilities for intersection in an archipelago of
own journey, Joshua’s islandness is complete with both his 27, 2022, asianmoviepulse.com/2021/03/interview-with-martin-edralin-
similarly situated Filipinos in diaspora? islands-is-a-canadian-movie-to-me/.
parents gone.
10 Jeff Popke, “Geography and ethics: everyday mediations through care and
At this juncture in Islands, Joshua’s decision to move consumption,” Progress in Human Geography 30 no. 4 (2006): 506.
on with his life by participating in forms of socialities that 11 Victoria Lawson, “Instead of Radical Geography, How About Caring
Geography?” Antipode 41 no. 1 (2009): 210.
his parents used to engage in indicates his renewed vigor to
connect with the Filipino community in Toronto. His umbilical Joseph Palis is an Associate Professor at the Department of 12 Elizabeth DeLoughrey, Roots and Routes (Honolulu: University of
Geography, University of the Philippines Diliman, where he Hawai’i Press, 2007): 2.
cord is cut along with the passing of his parents, yet this lacuna
teaches cinematic geographies and cartographic cinema, among 13 Brathwaite, 1.
that severs his familial pieties also emboldens him to venture
other courses. He is a co-convener of filmgeographies.com. 14 Hau’ofa, “Our Sea of Islands,” 148.
on his own, no longer as an extension of his now-defunct
family. The final scene shows him in a dance class his parents
frequented. Dancing out of sync to the beat of the music,
Acknowledgment
Joshua’s awkward attempt to flow with the tide and in effect
experience life without his parents fulfills what Brathwaite has Martin Edralin, Circus Zero, Canadian Film Centre, and the Canadian Association of Geographers-Ontario Division
said that “unity is sub-marine.”13 In this instance, his alone- (CAGONT), where I presented a version of this essay.
ness belies the fledgling connections he is forging with fellow
Filipino migrants that do not require superficial niceties to
ensure interconnectedness.
37
 LONG TAKE LONG TAKE
O
ne day, almost two decades ago, I watched
Kidlat Tahimik’s Mababangong Bangungot
(Perfumed Nightmare, 1977), for the first
time. It was in a cold basement classroom in Plaridel Hall
at the University of the Philippines. I was a young, twenty-
something film student then, and though I loved the film and
was mesmerized by the idea of a flying jeepney that went across
Europe, I did not fully comprehend it at first. I found the film
fun and funny because of the disjointed, ironic juxtaposition of
imagery with a voiceover narrating what was happening from
Tahimik’s perspective. Back in Tahimik’s time, there were two
different sets of equipment for film and sound, and both were
costly to rent. So he shot his footage in cheaper 16mm film
without sound and did the voiceover later in the post. But what
started as a logistical limitation became a style aesthetic that
freed him from the burden of narrative. He shot whatever he
could and edited them with a voiceover to construct a story
afterward. He chose his vehicle, and he crossed that bridge.
I did not realize then that Tahimik was also using
the jeepney as a metaphor for a type of filmmaking that would
figure in my life so strongly later as I moved across the world
and crossed many bridges through the years. Along the way, I
have watched and rewatched Mababangong Bangungot countless
times. Each viewing brought me ever closer to Tahimik’s
character in the film, the everyman who left his tiny village
and crossed oceans and continents to find his fortune. Like the
iconic jeepney in his film, Tahimik’s film was a patchwork of
self-shot found footage and a mishmash of different production
techniques, brought together in a cohesive storyline loosely
based on his own experiences.1 Like him, I chose my vehicle.
As I made my way through life as a migrant Filipino, I made
films with whatever scraps of footage I could find. However, I
discovered that I was not alone. As I made my found-footage
films, submitted them, and participated in Filipino and Asian
American film festivals across the US continent, I realized that
many Filipino and Filipino American filmmakers have also
chosen a similar mode of filmmaking. Though Tahimik did not
necessarily inspire them, nor were they exposed to each other’s
films before submitting these works to film festivals, for some
reason, this certain mode of filmmaking was not only practical
but also resonated aesthetically with filmmakers in the Filipino
diaspora.
This essay examines the significance of “first-person
cinema” in the Filipino diaspora. First, I define first-person
cinema and the importance of perspective and “situated
knowledge” in this unique mode of filmmaking. I then
look at early film and digital examples within the canon of
Philippine cinema before embarking on a worldwide journey
(though mainly in the United States and Canada) to see how
different Filipino filmmakers in the diaspora used this mode
of filmmaking to tell their own stories. These are mostly
films and filmmakers I have encountered through the years
by participating in film festivals and helping organize the
Seattle Asian American Film Festival. As such, this is not an
38
Tahimik’s Big Boss (Hartmut Lerch) shows him a pocket camera he can use
during his travels. From Mababangong Bangungot (Kidlat Tahimik, Zoetrope
Studios, 1977). All images are used with permission
exhaustive list of first-person films in the Filipino diaspora;
however, by writing about them together, I hope to explore
the unique point of view of the Filipino in motion within the
diaspora.
Film, especially in the documentary genre, was a
Western technology used in colonial settings to “point and
shoot” at the natives as a mode of surveillance, extraction, and
dominance in the guise of scientific objectivity.2 However, in
the Philippines, as in many postcolonial places, the colonized
have appropriated and hybridized the colonizer’s cultural
forms.3 For some filmmakers, this vehicle of surveillance has
become a vehicle of resistance, allowing them to tell their
own stories the way they want to. Just as feminist historian
Donna Haraway argued that empirical, scientific “objectivity”
is impossible and tainted by one’s perspective and background,
these filmmakers have instead celebrated their own “Situated
Knowledges” by turning the camera toward themselves, as
Tahimik did, and sharing their own subjectivities from their
points of view.4 This celebration is important, especially in
the context of the Filipino diaspora, a worldwide, amorphous
abstraction that is recursive and generative as Filipinos stay in
motion. Haraway suggests there is no fixed way of perceiving
anything, even home.
Filmmaker Alisa Lebow calls this kind of cinema
the “first-person film,” which, according to her, is first and
foremost about a mode of address: “these films ‘speak’ from
the articulated point of view of the filmmaker who readily
acknowledges her subjective position.”5 Our points of view
change across time and space. As Haraway argues, “Only partial
perspective promises objective vision. All Western cultural
narratives about objectivity are allegories of the ideologies
governing the relations of what we call mind and body, distance
and responsibility.”6 As Filipinos and Filipino filmmakers move
39
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“I am Kidlat Tahimik. I choose my vehicle, and I can cross all bridges!” From Mababangong Bangungot (Kidlat Tahimik, Zoetrope Studios, 1977)
across time and space, they push back against the concept
of a monolithic, nation-bound Filipino identity and instead
celebrate the plurality of Filipino experience and their ingenuity
(or, as Tahimik says, “indio-genius” in making new vehicles out
of scraps from both their homeland and their adopted lands).
First-person filmmakers in the diaspora bring autobiographical
and found footage together into a coherent narrative, often
through a voiceover spoken in the first person, developing their
unique style of filmmaking that is self-reflexive, aware that their
own truths about Filipino identity may not be the same one as
that of others, but are nevertheless worth sharing. These are our
vehicles, and we have crossed these bridges.
In Mababangong Bangungot, the jeepney is a
prominent recurring motif. At one point, Tahimik stops the
narrative altogether to show a musical montage of how these
jeepneys are made. He explains that jeepneys were American
vehicles of war that Filipinos have turned into vehicles of life.
They were built out of the discarded scraps and junk of conflict
and colonization and rebuilt into a modern conveyance to
take Filipinos wherever they needed to be. In the process, they
have been embellished with colorful decorations reflecting
their proud drivers’ personalities. Although impractical and
extraneous, these decorations were nevertheless integral to
the vehicle’s transformation into a celebration of life and
perseverance. When they got old, they were scrapped and
retooled to give life to the next generation of vehicles.
40
Tahimik made his film at the height of the Marcos
dictatorship, in the middle of his travails in Europe; and
Tahimik’s everyman in search of the American dream paralleled
the massive wave of emigration at the time due to both political
and economic reasons. However, after the peaceful People
Power Revolution toppled the Marcoses in February 1986,
would these expatriates come back to help rebuild the nation?
Born into a low-income family in the Visayas, Nick
Deocampo moved to Manila in the 1980s to teach film. He
and his students used Super-8mm film to make underground
documentaries and experimental films that explore what it truly
meant to live in the Philippines under Martial Law. One of
these films, Revolutions Happen Like Refrains in a Song (1987),
was a documentation of the People Power Revolution and
its aftermath. Through the film, Deocampo asked: “Did the
revolution change people’s lives? One year after the revolution,
I visited the past to find out that life was not like movies with
happy endings.” With the revolution being incomplete, the
impetus to continue documenting his own life and the lives of
others goes on.
His contributions to documenting and supporting the
nationalist project allowed him to go abroad and meet with
filmmakers and film scholars from other countries who were
also involved in the Third Cinema movement, a chapter in his
life that he also documented in his film:
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Deocampo captures the tumultuous times of the EDSA Revolution. From
Revolutions Happen Like Refrains in a Song (Nick Deocampo, 1987)
With what records I had of the once forbidden
images of the realities in our country and a modest
coverage of the revolution in my Super-8 films, I
saw myself traveling to other countries. A spirit of
freedom followed me in Berlin, Paris, Frankfurt, and
other European cities… I stood tall among legendary
people: Fernando Birri, father of the new Latin
American cinema, Laura Mulvey of Great Britain,
B. Ruby Rich of America… But being away from
home made me alienated. Sitting in Berlin to feel the
sun was different from sitting in Manila, enjoying
the same sun. In Paris, I could not look at every rue
and alley without remembering Manila, its narrow
streets and tight passageways. It was hard to forget
that which one had learned to understand and have
loved so much. It was not just the place that was hard
to get, it was also the people. I look at faces here; they
were cordial, friendly, but they didn’t have meaning.
A smile could be any smile; a look, any look. I longed
for the warmth of Manila… 7
We see through Deocampo that the diaspora is not
just pulling away from the motherland. Through his experience
abroad, Deocampo felt Rizal’s “specter of comparisons.”8 He
was abroad, yet Manila and the Philippines were still in his
heart. Indeed, the affective impact of nationalism may be felt
more strongly when one is away, and experiencing the diaspora
may amplify one’s feelings toward one’s homeland. Deocampo
would become an academic of Philippine independent cinema
and remains in Manila to this day. This was his vehicle, and he
crossed that bridge.
Marlon Fuentes was born and grew up in Manila
during the Marcos regime. He lost his father at a young
age and witnessed a close friend being murdered by the
military during an anti-Marcos demonstration. He moved
to Philadelphia in 1975 to study film and video and is now
a visual artist based in Los Angeles. He says that making art
is a way to deal with the constant state of being stuck in two
cultures: a Philippine motherland that was fading from his
memory and a new American home where the mundaneness
of raising a family has become more real and tangible. In
Bontoc Eulogy (1995), he uses colonial film footage to trace the
Filipino diasporic genealogy way back to a flashpoint in the
colonial history of the Philippines: the St. Louis World’s Fair,
when the Americans brought hundreds of indigenous Filipinos
to Missouri to exhibit their new subjects. Utilizing archival
footage he got from the Library of Congress, he turns the
colonial gaze of the ethnographic film over its head by layering
over it the narration of his fictional grandfather named Markod
of the Bontok people. At the same time, he utilizes first-person
filmmaking techniques to question the myth of objectivity.9
Filipino nationalism, based upon an interaction with
America, buys into the myth of objectivity, that Filipino
history runs progressively across “empty, homogenous time.”
It sees a seemingly objective “Philippine picture,” thinking
(as the Americans did) that the nation can be quantified,
measured, and contained within the frame of the image.
Diasporic Filipinos, however, acquire the chance and privilege
to look behind the curtain (or behind the camera?), seeing
the Philippines from the American perspective and America
from a Filipino perspective. This double-vision, or the specter
of comparison, can simply regress into nostalgia, as Fuentes
seemed to do at the beginning of the film. But it can ultimately
be redemptive. One sees the artifice of the image, the single-
mindedness of the “world picture.” Image is only as powerful
as one imagines it to be. Hence, we can play with the image,
and make fun of it through the story, as Fuentes did. In
reality, Fuentes never had a grandfather named Markod. In a
fabricated interview with Fuentes, he claims that:
As a filmmaker who wanted to explore history in a
personal way, I found ethnographic film presented
a stylized and codified syntax that in certain ways
preempted content. I wanted to participate in the
discourse of ethnographic representation by using
and appropriating the idea of the “native filmmaker”
... My goal was to create a story from the bits of
information I could unearth here in the United
States, without going back to the Philippines...
Thus, I consciously confined myself to the materials
available in archival sources such as the Library
of Congress and the Smithsonian. Fortunately,
some interesting “salvage footage” existed in these
archives.10
Some may classify Bontoc Eulogy as a mockumentary,
but this seems too simplistic a label. “Self-reflexive film”
might be a more apt title. Certainly, the images presented
in the film are undoctored and authentic. Certainly, the
St. Louis Exposition happened, and a thousand Filipinos
were exploited.11 However, by revealing the artifice and
constructedness of the narrative surrounding the images,
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Fuentes points out the very constructedness of the American
image of the Philippines. By showcasing a “truth-claim” that
is false (i.e., Markod was my grandfather, and he participated
in the World’s Fair), he also reveals the falseness of American
history’s “truth claims” and the fragility of historiography. As
Fuentes says in his imaginary interview, “History is really an
art of memory. The gaps and ellipses are just as important as
the materials we have in our hands.”12 By deconstructing the
ethnographic film, he questions the myth of authenticity and
lays the groundwork for a diasporic genealogy passed down
from his fictional ancestors to future generations. This was his
vehicle, and he crossed that bridge.
Birthed by the digital revolution, the Philippine New
Wave was a jubilant cry for artistic freedom.13 Filmmaking was
no longer the realm of mainstream studios with the budget
to produce films. By this time, I was already a film student.
We could make films about what we want, not about what is
marketable. The smaller and lighter digital cameras meant we
could bring them anywhere and shoot anything while escaping
the bureaucratic red tape of location permits and consent
forms. Guerilla filmmaking was utilized not only as a style
but as a philosophy. And yet, it also had echoes of previous
technological revolutions: Deocampo’s underground Super-8
films and Tahimik’s 16mm films before that.
In his own words, John Torres was a sheltered and
spoiled kid who had a rude awakening during the Asian
financial crisis when his family went deep into debt. He
struggled to cope with what was happening and found solace
in shooting footage with his family’s small video camera. Other
indie filmmakers discovered him at an independent film festival
called .MovFest.14 Together, they collaborated and helped
each other with their projects. Torres was invited to a small
Fuentes’ children perform a magic trick. Screengrab from Bontoc Eulogy
(Marlon Fuentes, Corporation for Public Broadcasting, 2008)
42
Asian festival in Berlin in 2005, where he filmed everyone and
everything to create Todo Todo Teros (2006).
Combining found footage in Berlin with those in
Manila, he constructs a loose narrative of a border-crossing,
two-timing filmmaker-turned terrorist. Torres documents a
time in his life when he was in a committed relationship with
someone back in the Philippines, but upon arrival in Berlin, he
fell in love with his handler and tour guide. His liaison becomes
a metaphor for the diasporic Filipino’s in-betweenness,
uncertain whether to stay loyal to the homeland or move on
and adapt to their new country. In an interview, Torres states
that:
I was being drawn [to] an outsider, and I believed
that I was really committed to this person. But then
I saw how I acted behind the camera. As you see, as
you could hear, my voice was being very intimate with
the subject, with the person in front of the camera.
Terorismo and Eros, terrorism and love: how you
become a terrorist with the people you love.15
This was, of course, the world after 9/11. The War
on Terror and increased border surveillance restricted the
global movement of Filipinos. In a way, Torres also saw this
new generation of guerilla filmmakers as freedom fighters
disrupting the status quo. In the same interview:
Even just having mostly a Filipino audience [at the
screening], I think it’s really, really good for me,
especially in that they’re living here, outside the
country. It’s a big chance for me to tell them how
things are going in the country, even if it’s just on
the surface a love story. It talks about a lot of things
political, economic, social.16
Torres combines street scenes from Manila with Berlin, creating a spatial
displacement in his film. From Todo Todo Teros ( John Torres, Peliculas Los
Otros, 2006)
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Among other films, I screened Todo Todo Teros at
the inaugural edition of the Diwa Filipino Film Showcase of
Seattle in 2014.17 Although I had migrated to the US in 2007, I
had only recently moved to Seattle and was still navigating my
way in the city and finding my community. A friend connected
me with the Filipino Cultural Heritage Society of Washington,
the organizers of the annual Philippine Pagdiriwang at
the Seattle Center, and pitched my idea of having a film
component to their festival. Since then, we have featured films
that celebrate the Filipino spirit wherever it resides, and I have
met like-minded filmmakers who have also shot in the first
person.
Fernando Dalayoan made Manila Road (2017) to Audience members attending the 2017 Diwa Filipino Film Festival in Seattle.
recapture the spirit of one of the longest-established Filipino Photo by author
communities in Canada. Using family film footage, animation,
and interviews, he retells his family’s migration journey. Unlike
Deocampo, who could not see Manila in the rues and alleyways
he walked on, Dalayoan and his family made their new home
their own. For them, Manila is not just a city in the Philippines;
it is a road in Winnipeg, Manitoba, a pathway that, according
to Dalayoan, represents their rich legacy in Winnipeg, but also
one that can bring them back to the Philippine when they
want.
Gail Gutierrez also retraces her mother’s path to the
US as a nurse in Sampaguita Love (2017). Capturing her daily
interactions with her mom at home by video, she also joins her
mother in her reunion with her former classmates. Interspersed A signpost for Manila Road. From Manila Road (Fernando Dalayoan, Blue
in her loose narrative are double-exposure shots on 16mm Water Buffalo Productions, 2012)
BW film and hand-processed. One image, for example, shows
the ocean in San Diego as filmed through a camera obscura,
superimposed with the portrait of Gutierrez’s mom in nursing
school back in the Philippines. By juxtaposing two found
images sourced and located from opposite ends of the ocean,
Gutierrez maps out an occupational genealogy, retracing the
paths of nurses back to the colonial encounter and the need for
cheap migrant labor both during US colonialism and after in
the US’ firm neocolonial grip on the independent Philippines.
At the same time, by showing these very personal and touching
moments with her mother, Gutierrez also proves their agency
and capability to make the most out of difficult circumstances.
Some filmmakers have also mapped out queer
genealogies. Through In This Family (2018), Drama del
Rosario shares his painful experience of being outed to his
conservative family when he was still living with them back in
Gutierrez juxtaposes home videos with archival photos to retell a genealogy of
the Philippines. According to del Rosario, it was only ten years labor and resilience. From Sampaguita Love (Gail Gutierrez, 2017)
after the incident, when he finally moved to the US alone in
2017, that he was finally able to openly talk about the trauma
of being queer: “the physical distance made it easier to speak—
let alone revisit the actual audio recordings of my parents
yelling at me.” However, in It Runs in the Family (2018), Joella
Cabalu travels with her brother Jay from Canada to the US to
discover what a queer Filipinx identity could mean. Ultimately,
43
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Del Rosario was not able to play back an audio recording of his
conversation with his father and process the trauma of getting outed until
he finally moved to his new home in California.
From In This Family (Drama del Rosario, 2018)
Joella and Jay Cabalu celebrate pride with their family members.
From It Runs in the Family ( Joella Cabalu, 2018)
Lozada contemplates fatherhood and family in the diaspora.
From Distance Between (R.J. Lozada, 2014)
Garcia’s family enjoys a day by the sea that both distances and connects
their two homes. From Spring by the Sea (Aleia Garcia, 2019)
44
when they return to the Philippines (where they were born but
did not grow up), they realize that queerness is not a purely
Western construct. “Bakla” does not necessarily translate to
English. Ultimately, they find comfort in being who they are,
following the beliefs they want to follow, and forming family
wherever they can. Queerness is about being yourself however
you want that to look.
In this respect, I think that the label “Filipinx,” a
neologism inspired by the queer Latino movement, can be a
good way to describe the queerness of being situated within
the Filipino diaspora, controversial as that idea may seem.
Neither “authentically” Filipino nor hyphenated immigrant
(i.e., Filipino American), being in the diaspora is a queer
positionality. This queerness is also expressed in R.J. Lozada’s
Distance Between (2014), reimagining what being a father
means when he gets an opportunity to be a sperm donor to a
lesbian couple. He ponders what being an absentee father is
and ruminates on his relationship with his father, a seaman who
was sporadically there when he was growing up. Did growing
up in the diaspora mean experiencing these “alternative”
family dynamics? Recalling simple Tagalog words that sound
unnatural in his mouth, he nevertheless repeats them as a way
to carry over his memories of his father from himself and then
to his unborn child, projecting this queer, diasporic genealogy
to the future.
When asked what the title of her 2017 film was
referring to, filmmaker Zorinah Juan said, “The Second Province
signifies placing roots in a home that is not your first… It is a
feeling of belonging to both and neither at the same time. The
ever-present knowledge that I am not of one province but two;
never quite able to settle on which one is first in my bones.”
18
Aleia Garcia’s Spring by the Sea (2019) encapsulates this
perfectly. The duality of these domestic spaces counterpoints
the domesticity of the family footage she captures: Garcia
calls both the Philippines and Saudi Arabia her home. In her
camera, flying back and forth across the Indian Ocean is as
mundane as riding a jeepney to work. She is attached to both
places even as she never truly fits in either. Nevertheless, this
constant movement also reveals the precarity of being Filipino
in the diaspora.
In No Data Plan (2019), Miko Revereza captures
the constant anxiety and tension of being an undocumented
immigrant. Shot almost entirely onboard a transcontinental
train from Los Angeles to New York, we feel the lack of private
spaces—places to call home, or tahanan, literally a place to stop
and rest from one’s travels—Revereza eats and sleeps onboard
the train, documenting his life through his mobile phone as a
way to counter the constant state surveillance he faces all the
time.
The pandemic further highlighted the precarity of
being Filipino in America, where a considerable percentage of
LONG TAKE
the population work in the healthcare industry, and Filipino editing all our footage and premiered our film, Kung Saan Man
nurses are assigned to the most dangerous and laborious Tayo (Wherever We May Be), in 2021, the 500th anniversary
positions.19 In Back to Work (2020), Alexander Catedral shares of Magellan’s circumnavigation of the world. The film itself is
a moment in time when his household (most of which worked quite amateurish and DIY; I did not have the budget to travel
in healthcare) contracted COVID-19, and they had to impose around the world to capture my friends’ stories, and not all of
public health safety procedures into their private home. They them had a background in filmmaking. Nevertheless, as we
found ways to connect with each other and care for each other screen it across the world, we hope it inspires other people
despite everything, and once they had all recovered, there was (especially those in the Filipino diaspora) to tell their own
nothing else to do but to go back to work. stories.
Frances Grace Mortel also meditated upon this I believe this multitude of films, this multitude
perseverance and the simple power to push forward through of voices, is essential. These tiny realities map filmmakers’
affective labor in her powerful, poetic short film, Dear Nanay subjective spaces and “situated knowledges” within the Filipinx
(2021). Remembering her grandmother, who sewed, mended, diaspora when taken individually. However, analyzed together
and washed clothes for a living, she spins a yarn that connects and in conversation, they become a visual archive of diasporic
her to her grandmother back home from where she is now in Filipino experience that looks beyond nation and state to
the United States. Capturing herself in a fetal position, floating describe the multi-faceted nature of “transcendent” Filipinxness
in space/non-space, Mortel is swaddled by her nanay’s labor more completely.
of love, the clothes she worked hard on, being transported
in between the two spaces through osmosis, through an
umbilical cord of memories; a touching statement on translocal
matrilineality and the affective work that mothers perform
whether in the diaspora or not.
Drawing upon first-person cinema from the
Philippines and the diaspora in 2014, I started my own project
of inviting some of my friends and fellow former iskolar
ng bayan (state scholars)20 to share their stories of moving
elsewhere in the world. I sent them my camera, a small,
handheld, consumer-level video camera, by courier and invited
them to capture whatever they wanted about their life. Dubbed
Enrique de Malaca (inspired by Kidlat Tahimik’s own forever
film project Memories of Overdevelopment/Balikbayan #1),21
our camera traveled across six countries and circumnavigated
the world. Instead of a voyage of colonial discovery, it became
Catedral’s family connects with each other through video calls. From Back to
a voyage of reclamation, recovery, and reconnection. During Work (Alexander Catedral, A-Docs, 2020)
the pandemic, in the middle of my social isolation, I finished
Mortel contemplates her grandmother’s labor as she herself embarks on her own journey. From Dear Nanay (France Grace Mortel, 2021)
45
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Co-director Kenneth Cardenas shows off the traveling video camera
from his Toronto flat. From Kung Saan Man Tayo (Adrian Alarilla,
Kenneth Cardenas, Ciela Guenne, Pauline M., Pat R., Joseph Unsay,
and Jed Yabut, 2021)
Endnotes
1 Patrick F. Campos writes about Kidlat Tahimik’s process and practice
in The End of National Cinema: Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century
(Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2016), 143-215.
2 Nick Deocampo, Film: American influences on Philippine cinema (Manila:
Anvil Publishing, 2011), 11; see also, Campos, 346-349.
3 Clodualdo del Mundo, Jr. conceptualizes this act of appropriation and
hybridization in Native Resistance: Philippine Cinema and Colonialism,
1898–1941 (Manila: De La Salle University Press, 1998).
4 Donna Haraway, “Situated Knowledges: The Science Question in
Feminism and the Privilege of Partial Perspective,” in Feminist Studies,
vol. 14, no. 3 (1988): 575-599.
5 Alisa Lebow, The Cinema of Me: The Self and Subjectivity in First Person
Documentary (London and New York: Wallflower Press, 2012), 1.
6 Haraway, “Situated Knowledges,” 575-599.
7 Nick Deocampo, Revolutions Happen Like Refrains in a Song (Manila,
1987).
8 The phrase specters or demons of comparison was used by Rizal in his
anticolonial novel Noli me tangere (1887) and unpacked by Benedict
Anderson in several of his studies on nation. Anderson offers a
comparative view of the phrase in The Spectre of Comparisons: Nationalisms,
Southeast Asia and the World (London & New York: Verso, 1998), 2.
9 Campos discusses this reversal and revelation, 488-491.
10 Marlon Fuentes, “Extracts from an Imaginary Interview: Questions and
Answers about Bontoc Eulogy,” F Is for Phony - Fake Documentary and
Truth’s Undoing (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota
Press, 2006), 119-120.
11 A chronicle and interpretation of what happened are in Jose D. Fermin,
1904 World’s Fair: The Filipino Experience (Quezon City: University of the
Philippines Press, 2004).
12 Fuentes, 120.
13 The notion of a Philippine New Wave constituted in part by first-person
filmmakers, including Kidlat Tahimik, is documented in Khavn de la
Cruz, Philippine New Wave: This Is Not a Film Movement (Quezon City:
Noel D. Ferrer, MovFest, Instamatic Writings, 2010).
46
LONG TAKE
The diaspora is a conceptual territory. It occupies
no space and yet encompasses every space. It has no
sovereignty except over its body. It does not reside in an
empty, homogenous time but lives in an unevenly dense,
heterogenous time. Moreover, diasporic history is a history
where the question of authenticity no longer matters as much.
It is the power to construct a story with the little resources you
have. It is the power to share your voice with a disembodied
community. It is the power to stand up and declare: we choose
our vehicles, and we can cross all bridges.
Adrian Ellis Alarilla is a Ph.D. candidate in History at
the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, studying Filipino
migration and focusing on kinship networks and genealogies
of movement in the US empire and the Filipino nation. His
films parallel his research interests, as he uses the personal
documentary genre to reflect on and process the contemporary
experience of Filipino migration. His works have been shown
in the US, Canada, Mexico, Cambodia, and the Philippines.
14 See Dodo Dayao, “Smells Like Indie Spirit” Pelikula Journal 6 (2021):
70-73.
15 Asia Pacific Arts, “Todo Sobre Torres: An Interview with Philippine
Independent Filmmaker John Torres,” University of California at Los
Angeles, May 6, 2007, international.ucla.edu/ccs/article/70687.
16 Ibid.
17 For the report on the recent Diwa Filipino Film Showcase, see Joann
Natalia Aquino, “From Beyond to Seattle, Washington: How Diwa
Film Showcase Connects Audiences To Independent Films From The
Motherland and The Filipino Diaspora,” Pelikula 6, 80-82.
18 Zorinah Juan, personal correspondence with the author, February 14,
2019.
19 This present situation of migrant precarity in the healthcare industry
can be traced a long way back historically. See Catherine Ceniza Choy,
Empire of Care: Nursing and Migration in Filipino American History
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2003).
20 State university students, including those of the University of the
Philippines, are called iskolar ng bayan to connote the patriotic orientation
of their education.
21 Campos characterizes Balikbayan #1 as an unfinishable film and explains
this quality in light of Kidlat’s process and practice, 192-205.
47
 SHORT TAKE
I
n their playful, architectural essay film El Lado
Quieto (The Still Side, 2021), Carolina Fusilier
and Miko Revereza tell a story through images
of forsaken tourist structures in Acapulco. Drolly rechristened
“Capaluco,” the resort city appears just slightly altered. For
instance, the co-directors film an actual abandoned zoo in
Acapulco but fabricate still operable loudspeakers that blast
promotional messages on a loop: “Kaporozoo is the home
of the animals, and also yours,” the unaffected voice once
promising tourists consensual cohabitation with the animals.
Then, through voiceover narration, Revereza and Fusilier
introduce a syokoy character, who was sucked into a strong
current on the Manila Galleon trade route and spat onto
its opposite end in Capaluco (as the galleons once traveled
back and forth between Manila and the port at Acapulco).1
Out of water, the merman loses his scales, and looping audio
advertisements romance him to fantasies of the perfect
vacation, and the perfect human beach body to spend it in.
“And also yours”—the syokoy believes it, as tourists believe
someone else’s home is theirs, for a time. Even in decay, the
resort beguiles the sea-bound syokoy to forget himself and
live leisurely in the human form he hears described to him on
the loudspeakers, sees in extant murals, statues, and signage.
The reduction of an animal’s habitat into a zoo, or human
imitation—serves as a damning metaphor for tourism—the
broader reduction of land into resort property, of a people’s way
of life into a petting zoo for outsiders.
We never see or hear the syokoy, the outsider we see
Capaluco through. Instead, the camera assumes his perspective,
occasionally mimicking his lumbering walk and curious gaze.
At most, we see what a shadow that could be as much his as a
tree’s. As the loudspeakers provide the syokoy context, Revereza
provides the viewer exposition in voiceover, as if improvising
the storyline as the film plays. Without this exposition, viewers
might broadly approximate the camera’s gaze as an outsider
looking in and may not make out the otherworldly creature
in the film’s ambiguous shadows. The narration becomes a
two-sided conversation when Fusilier enters the voiceover.
Their conversations remain loose, observations apparently
unrehearsed. It’s as if, or may literally be, that we are witnessing
the co-directors’ ideas about how to shape the film at their
inception.
This at least seemingly spontaneous dialogue is
characteristic of the work of Revereza, who has made an
affecting body of autobiographical docs about growing up
in the US undocumented. In his feature film debut, No Data
Plan (2019), and his shorts Disintegration 93-96 (2017) and
Distancing (2019), he combines handheld footage of his
family and travels and old home videos with audio recordings
and loose narration, both subtitled and spoken. If he refined
Previous page: Still from El Lado Quieto
48
his narration, it would come at the expense of his work’s
immediacy. No Data Plan is Revereza’s cinematic diary of a
three-day Amtrak Ride; using home video footage and self-
portraiture in Disintegration 93-96, Revereza reflects on the
time he and his mother spent in the Philippines apart from his
father, who had migrated to the US three years before them.
When I interviewed Revereza about these films
for The Current in 2021, he explained, “It was important for
me to realize that the style of the camera movement is so
connected to my body—my policed body—moving through
the United States.”2 When US Immigration and Customs and
Enforcement stops by to ID Amtrak passengers, including
an ID-less Revereza, in No Data Plan, the frame shakes as
he does, nervously gripping his portable camera. In the same
way that operating a heavy cinema camera on a tripod would
have disconnected the frame’s correspondence to his body, an
overwrought narration would have disconnected us from his
spontaneous thoughts. Interestingly, Revereza retains his loose,
personal aesthetic for music video work, his camera-operating
body therefore becoming, at least to some degree, an intercessor
between the screen and the expression of the musician.
El Lado Quieto takes this further. Fusilier and Revereza’s
camera and narration link the syokoy as a fictional character
and all its symbolic, historical associations to micro/macro
cinematography of slowly rotting structures.
On a practical level, Revereza’s choice of ergonomic
and economical tool kits enables him to operate as a one-
person band, freeing him from the paternalistic financial bonds
so common in the film industry. For El Lado Quieto, Fusilier
and Revereza did nearly everything as directors, writers,
producers, cinematographers, and composers. Revereza also
designed the sound, while Fusilier animated the indubitable
syokoy shadows. The latter is a prolific multidisciplinary artist
living between Mexico City and Argentina. Her installations
often incorporate video and/or sound into unique physical
creations and reimagine or personify manufactured objects left
in the wake of human inhabitance. Her brother, Mateo, the
only other billed collaborator, shares a cinematography credit;
the crew retained a low profile in Acapulco.
As I learned from writing my 2021 article for The
Current, the couple essentially found themselves living in
Mexico out of their suitcases due to COVID-19 travel bans.
Revereza told me he maintained a “two-shirt policy” for a
time, wearing one shirt while the other hung to dry. The crew’s
sustainable ecosystem counters the tourism industry’s, which,
long before the start of the film, had already extracted what it
could from Capaluco, and moved on to sublate the next stretch
of land. But Capaluco also mimics Acapulco’s evolution—
like the actual city, the former, we learn through expository
voiceover, experienced a golden age, replete with lopsided
wealth and celebrity guests (Hollywood actors and American
politicians), before its eventual, and inevitable decline.
Stills from El Lado Quieto. All images are used with
permission
SHORT TAKE
In my viewing experience, it is rare that a film that, in content and/
or form, rebukes colonialism also makes a point of transcending it through
its production economy. In an extreme example, Apocalypse Now exploited
Philippine labor (Filipinos receiving worse pay and living conditions than
Vietnamese and American extras/workers), abused the land, and made complicit
deals with Ferdinand Marcos’s military to make—ostensibly—an epic critique of
the American empire. According to Gerald Sussman’s “Bulls in the Indo (China
Shop),” in which he provides his first-hand account of the set, the movie crew’s
presence in Baler dislocated the local economy. Traditionally based around the
Municipio, church, and public plaza, the marketplace gravitated towards the
Apocalypse headquarters, near the makeshift heliport built on top of the Central
School’s playground. Ultimately, the production caused severe food shortages for
locals and severe inflation, tripling the price of beef, for instance.3 This ravenous
mode of production nullifies, even renders hypocritical, Apocalypse Now’s (1979)
indictment of American Empire. On the other hand, Fusilier and Revereza
considerately small footprint in Acapulco never belies its position on the means
of production that enable such unnatural outgrowths as tourism.
El Lado Quieto stimulated reactive thoughts in me throughout its
70-minute running time, despite entirely comprising landscapes and interiors
that traditionally function as breaks from the primary action. The co-directors’
unpopulated hotels, museums, waterparks, restaurants, framed in both close,
abstract details and long-range architectural considerations, are inversely
rich with subtext, and Fusilier and Revereza’s periodic, open conversations
encouraged me to brainstorm with them rather than wander off into unrelated
thoughts. In a way, they create the shared space the resorts purport to be. The
speakers announce Capaluco as “the only all-inclusive island in the world.”
But tourism has historically enriched land developers and corporations like
the Inter-American Development Bank and World Bank by reducing local
cultures to their profitable attributes and removing native communities from the
incoming revenue stream.
One structure may encapsulate the decline of Acapulco’s tourism
industry: Arturo Duranzo Moreno’s opulent palace, modeled after the
Parthenon. Fusilier and Revereza effectively pass this now long-abandoned
mansion for a museum. Greco-Roman paintings and sculptures depict Satanic
worship inside the home and across the yard. The syokoy waddles through the
elaborate columns, absorbing human likenesses through decapitated statues
and defaced murals; A painted man appears castrated by the way the canvas
has peeled across his lower body, and another loudspeaker announces a sound
program called “The Myth of Europe” will play momentarily in another room.
Fusilier and Revereza choose not to engage with the actual story behind the
imitation Parthenon home, perhaps to imitate the syokoy’s ignorance or to
retain the human fairy tale the creature has, by this point in the film, fully
committed himself to.
The homeowner, Moreno, had another name—“El Negro.” A police
chief who ran a billion-dollar criminal empire, he fled the country (perhaps
through the home’s many escape tunnels) when his friend, Mexican President
José López Portillo, left office and thus no longer had the power to protect
him. Before this, with money earned from drug and sex trafficking, among
other things, he threw decadent parties at his palace, where he kept pet tigers,
to whom he is rumored to have fed his enemies. This history speaks to the
drug-related violence that plagues Acapulco to this day and blights the tranquil
illusion that once sustained its hospitality industry. Fusilier and Revereza
49
 SHORT TAKE
omit all this because, in their Capaluco, the resulting decline
of capitalism and tourism has already passed—the syokoy’s
fantasy displaces no one, bastardizes no original lay of the land.
When I talked with Revereza last year, I asked him
if he had filmed any interviews on his three-day Amtrak ride
in No Data Plan but decided to cut them out; in that film, his
camera looks at everything but people’s faces. He told me he
did film interviews but felt sensitive about the interviewees’
privacy. A lot of the people who ride Amtrak, he told me,
“have a lot of reasons for not flying instead. I overhear their
stories, and a lot of them are heartbreaking. Opening myself
up to their stories would have required more commitment
to the subject. It would have been difficult to make a film in
three days and properly commit to another person’s life story
with care. So I stayed mostly introspective about my own story
and family history.”4 I felt Revereza knew what it meant to be
misrepresented and surveilled, and that if he were to make a
film about someone else, it would require the right amount of
time and care. I wonder if, for similar reasons, he and Fusilier
felt uncomfortable representing Acapulco’s actual history as
outsiders, so instead used fiction as a buffer.
In Disintegration 93-96, Revereza suggests his father
hid his “internal poverty”—his secret affair and hypocrisy—
with what he calls the “outward appearance of stability”—in
short, the American dream, or how it manifests in one’s
external facade, and “hides all its internal flaws so insidiously”
that it causes one’s disintegration. El Lado Quieto ends with the
syokoy assimilating to a similar capitalist dream as the resort
speakers break from routine and address the creature directly,
pitching beauty products that will humanize his appearance.
Perhaps because the film has succumbed to fantasy, Fusilier and
Revereza don’t return via voiceover to air their final judgment
or conclusions. For Disintegration, Revereza arranged home
videos of his family from his first three years in the US. He
wanted to show them in their glory years without labels. In the
end, he attempts a conclusion: “Perhaps we can still live with
our internal poverty as long we present ourselves in our best
moments of luxury in video.” Fusilier and Revereza allow the
syokoy its moment of luxury. But for him to become human,
and specifically in the mold of an ideal tourist, he would have
to shed his iconic appearance and thus the history and ethos
his appearance stands for.
Because Revereza’s work feels so intimate, it often
compels me to process his personal explorations through my
own experiences. A week before I saw El Lado Quieto at the
Museum of Modern Art, my father visited me in New York for
the first time. He is Filipino but grew up with Black American
parents who adopted him during Martial Law and raised him
in the US. Like Revereza says of his own father: “Work and
family came to define and motivate my father’s existence.”5
Similarly, mine rarely had the space to wonder about himself,
spending any leftover money and energy chasing working-class
50
versions of the American dream. This included lite-tourism—
modest vacations around the United States. He always said
we’d travel together as a family to the Philippines, but we never
did. I wondered if he put it off because he was scared to feel
like an outsider in his own birth country. Before I attended
the screening, I had taken him to different Filipino American
spaces in New York, all of which he navigated like a tourist,
talking about and observing Filipino people, food, and things
like an amateur Orientalist—in simplistic ways that othered
them. I wondered if we’d ever feel like more than tourists in the
Philippines.
When we talked last year, Revereza said something
to me in passing that I often still think about. I had told
him my predicament—I thought I’d finally found my blood
relatives in the Philippines and had been talking and bonding
with them for months. Here, finally, was our “real” attachment
and connection to the homeland. But then, new information
surfaced that revealed they may not be my actual family. From
that point on, when I referred to one of them in conversation,
I affixed “maybe” to their relation to me—“my maybe tiya, my
maybe pamangkin, etc.” This spread me thin and confused me
terribly. But almost immediately, Revereza encouraged me
to call them tiyo and tito and so on anyway. He encouraged,
in some ways, that I, like the syokoy, hold onto the dream,
which may end up being my only familial attachment to the
homeland. I haven’t decided whether I should; I haven’t figured Mementos from the Making of
out whether or not the dream of an imagined, shared home Memories of a Forgotten War
could not come at someone else’s expense.
Text by Sari Dalena
Hand-painted storyboard art by
Danilo Dalena
Aaron E. Hunt is a New York City-based filmmaker, a
cameraperson in doc/narrative production, the Vice President
of the distributor Dedza Films, and a writer with bylines in
publications such as Film Comment, Sight & Sound, American
Cinematographer, Rappler, and CNN Philippines.
Endnotes
1 Aaron E. Hunt, “A Moment When I Forgot My Home: A Conversation
with Miko Revereza,” The Current, August 3, 2021, accessed on
September 15, 2022, www.criterion.com/current/posts/7483-a-moment-
when-i-forgot-my-home-a-conversation-with-miko-revereza.
2 Ibid.
3 Gerald Sussman, “Bulls In The Indo (China) Shop.” Journal of Popular
Film and Television 20, no.1 (1992): 24-28.
4 Miko Revereza, interviewed by Aaron E. Hunt, Zoom interview, July 1,
2021, transcript courtesy of Aaron E. Hunt, quoted with permission.
5 Hunt, “A Moment When I Forgot My Home: A Conversation with
Miko Revereza.”
51
 ARCHIVE ARCHIVE

“We were at the heart of the Muslim country,

In the jungle, in the village,
At the foot of the mountain
Filled with angry spirits
It was crazy.
There were too many of us,
Yet, with so little money;
and so, little by little, we went insane.
I think you can see it in the film…
You can see the photography going
a little crazy,
and the director and the actors
going a little crazy.
After a while, I realized I was a little
frightened,
The film was making itself;
The spirits of the mountain were making the film.”

Filming the Bud Dajo Massacre in Jolo, Sulu

March 16-31, 1999
(counter-quotes from Hearts of Darkness)

52 53
 ARCHIVE ARCHIVE

And so opens Black Maria’s Diary, more commonly known as Sari Lluch Dalena’s personal account of the grueling yet
ultimately fulfilling experience of shooting in Jolo. People believed she and her group had gone mad by filming in the militia-ridden
made several inquiries…regarding the
mountains down south, where the Abu Sayyaf, Moro National Liberation Front, and the government forces waged endless battles, that
situation in Patikul…they received positive
it was sheer foolhardiness and suicide. But a story had to be told, and it could not be told any other way.
feedback…it was possible for us to shoot.
While in Jolo, Sari kept a diary using the nom de guerre “Black Maria.” She can no longer locate her journal. But here are
“While I was away, a small typhoon blew
surviving excerpts from Black Maria’s Diary, taken from the entries “Grace Under Pressure” and “Rain of Bullets.”
in on Jolo. The winds were so powerful
that the typhoon cut the power. Our
production assistant remembered waking
“Our coming to Jolo proved to be a mixed blessing to the village and the Marines. I paid a courtesy call to the Marine up in the grip of a surreal nightmare,
Detachment…a major disappointment as the Colonel proved uncooperative. He firmly rejected our request to shoot and dreading the sound of the crackling roof.
told us that we were out of our minds to even come to Jolo. We were directly told (or ordered) to pack up, go back to After two minutes, he realized the crazy
Manila, and postpone our shoot for the last week of April. My temperature rose, and I could feel my neck burning hot as noise was rapid gunfire shooting against
I stared eyeball to eyeball with the Colonel. I was furious, but I decided to remain calm…it was a logistical nightmare to the typhoon. All of Jolo seemed to fire
cancel my shoot. I told him, let us reason together. He readily suggested that there should be no blasting or explosions… their machine guns and armalites at
for it would disturb the peace and order in the community. I reasoned that we had already won the community’s support midnight to drive the rain away as part of
and (they had) already (been) informed of the blasting sequences…If I deleted the blasting scenes, it would be too their tradition. Our PA, soaking wet, made
critical. The madness was stirring. his way to the second floor where the rest
of the film crew were sleeping.”

“So, I took the fastest boat to Zamboanga…to get the permission from the SouthCom Commander…The General
and Colonel were very accommodating. I was able to explain clearly the details of the scenes, the urgency of the project, The initial difficulties of the Jolo shoot
and assured them of the support given to us by the local officials, PNP, MNLF, and the very community of Jolo They were offset by the wealth of professional and
historical-cultural experience of the Manila crew.
Seven days of working in a sensitive environment,
where cultural differences and the threat of
military unrest loomed like an overhanging net,
somehow worked to make everyone grow, as Black
Maria writes, “triumphant and wiser.”

The culminating experience, however,

was not connected with one’s unfamiliarity with
the ways of the other, nor with the Abu Sayyaf and
the MNLF. It occurred during the re-enactment
of the Bud Dajo Massacre when American soldiers
burned a mosque while a wedding was taking
place inside. It is an eerie scene that sends shivers
up the spine: the wedding party lies as if lifeless,
and smoke—to imply the burning—gathers
around the bodies.

“I cried ‘cut’ to end it, and everyone

drowsily roused from a half-slumber,”
Black Maria writes. “Some stretched
and asked for drinking water, as the
rest of the spectators…clapped and
cheered. But something was terribly
wrong. The moment she had feared
finally arrived: my film’s first big
physical (or supernatural) disaster.”

54 55
 ARCHIVE ARCHIVE

The women playing the bridesmaids suddenly collapsed. They were quickly revived, but Karsum, the girl who plays
the bride, would not awaken. The village Imam was summoned. A spoon was used to pry her mouth open to give her water,
which she coughed up. Then suddenly, she opened her eyes.

“Parang ahas ([her eyes were] like a snake’s).”

A classic case of possession followed: the girl screamed and writhed and exhibited the strength of ten men. Then she
gave instructions that only the women could touch her. So, Sari and some other women carried her out into the rain to a hut
where she was laid on the floor.

“Ang bahay ko, ang dumi-dumi, walang pagkain” (my house is so dirty, and we have no food).”

Then she announced that it was time for her to leave and that no one should block her way. Sari and the rest cleared
the path to the door, and as quickly as it started, Karsum was back again.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the actors, who play the role of warriors, started collapsing. Fortunately, they quickly
came round, too. The speculation was: Karsum was possessed by the spirit of Dayang-Dayang, a noblewoman, while the
men—some who traced their lineage back to the actual warriors who fought in the war—were possessed by the very warriors
they were playing.

The next day was devoted to prayer. The crew visited and cleaned the gravesites. True enough, they discovered that
Dayang-Dayang’s grave was neglected.

“Gumanda ‘yong araw, so it was a sign na OK na” (The day brightened, so we took it as a good sign).”
As she indicates in her poem: “At a point, hindi na kami ang nagshoo-shooting. And nagshoo-
shooting ‘yong mga spirits” (We weren’t the ones shooting the film anymore. It was the spirits doing
the work).

It was more than a mystical experience—it was a lesson that made everyone realize territorial, religious,
and artistic respect. Those possessed felt privileged to be singled out by their ancestor; hard-core Christians opened
to the wisdom of the Imam; and nary a camera rolled to capture the extraordinary event. Even the actors felt they
accomplished something truly meaningful in connection to their people’s history.

I still remember when my father Danilo Dalena painted Asong Simbahan (1984), which frames a
sleeping dog, her legs sticking up in the air, inside the church. It became my favorite painting of his, so ten
years later, it inspired my first short film of the same title, Asong Simbahan (1994).

Using ink, pastel, and watercolor, my father made beautiful hand-painted drawings on paper that
served as the storyboards for my short film based on his painting. Unlike the usual storyboards, they were
small, exquisite paintings.

When it was time to make my first documentary, Memories of a Forgotten War (2001), which I made
with Camilla Griggers, about the Philippine-American War of 1899, he returned to the drawing board. He
turned expressive when creating the imagery of rituals and massacres with painterly essence.

56 57
 ARCHIVE

My father had an eye for detail, from

the indigo-tinted feet and hands of the women in
the Battle of Batac scene to the monochromatic
palette of the Moro warriors with their kris to
women and children massacred in a volcanic
crater in the Bud Dajo scene.

My cinematographers and I admired

his artworks. We pondered the gorgeous
compositions: how do we translate such paintings
into three dimensions and capture them on
celluloid?

Danilo Dalena is one of the Philippines’

foremost expressionists. He made his mark in
the early 1970s with his caustic political cartoons
and illustrations for the Free Press and Asia-
Philippines Leader, which raised the standard of
editorial art in the country. When he returned to
his hometown in Pakil, Laguna, he found artistic
inspiration in folk culture and festivities. Through
his art, he draws attention to what is often
considered peripheral and ordinary in our society
and makes them central and extraordinary.

Sari Dalena, an independent filmmaker, holds

an MFA in Film Production from New York
University. She has received the Fulbright-
Hayes scholarship, the New York Asian Cultural
Council Fellowship, NYU Tisch School of the
Arts Graduate Fellowship, and the 13 Artists
Award at the Cultural Center of the Philippines.
Her notable films, which have been screened at
various national and international film festivals,
include Memories of a Forgotten War (2001),
Rigodon (2005), Ka Oryang (2011), The Guerrilla
is a Poet (2013), and Dahling Nick (2015). She is a
professor and former director at the University of
the Philippines Film Institute.

58 59
 SHORT TAKE
The order was to kill and burn—to raze everything
to the ground, leaving no prisoners, to spare no one over the
age of ten in the land of Balangiga, Samar, and turn it into a
howling wilderness. Kimberly Alidio asserts that this order
was a retaliation to the attack launched by the Filipino natives
against the American soldiers in September 1901.1 General
Jacob Smith, responsible for the kill and burn order, was clear
in his intentions of leaving no prisoners and that having more
people killed would better please him. This order made him
infamous, David L. Fritz states, landing him eventually in
martial court in 1902.2 However, he was tried not for murder
or war crimes but due to his “conduct to the prejudice of good
order and military discipline.”
The Balangiga massacre is one of the many events
in Philippine history that clearly illustrates the violence of
American colonization and the atrocities that made up their
occupation of the islands. It went against the benevolent
assimilation policy of the United States as proclaimed by US
president William McKinley in 1898.3 The Balangiga bells
also commemorate this historical event, the church bells the
Americans took as war trophies following the attack launched
by the natives against the American soldiers. These bells,
particularly for the residents of the Eastern Samar town, serve
as a memorial of the Filipino resistance against American
colonization. Back in Balangiga, it took 117 years before they
were finally returned, as reported by Xave Gregorio.4
According to Robert Welch, many accounts have been
written about the Balangiga massacre but many facts, mostly
the numbers, remain up for debate.5 Along with the events of
the Philippine-American war, what happened in Balangiga is a
point in history that needs to be recovered for it to be indicted.
Khavn De La Cruz’s Balangiga: Howling Wilderness (2017) is
an attempt to present the war and violence of colonialism by
focusing on the edges of the colonial experience instead of its
center. In this way, it brings the event closer to its intended
audience: the Filipinos of the present that must be reminded of
a past to make more sense of its implications today.
The Howling Wilderness
Bob Couttie, in his work Hang the Dogs, narrates how
on September 28, 1901, Filipino natives ambushed members
of Company C of the 9th US Infantry Regiment while having
breakfast, having no clue at all of what was coming to them.6
This calculated attack resulted in 48 dead and 22 injured out of
the unit’s 78 soldiers.
The ambush triggered a counter-attack—a retaliation
that sheds light on how the American soldiers carried out
their duties in the country: filled with contradictions, intent
on undermining the resistance of Filipino natives. These
characteristics of the Americans’ “duties” are seen in documents
60
that downplayed the force of the Filipino natives which is
discussed by John M. Gates,7 also indicating why the attack
against Company C launched by the natives was met with the
kill and burn order. The Americans considered this attack their
“worst single defeat” in the Philippine-American War.8
The film Balangiga captures the aftermath of the
Balangiga massacre through the eyes of a child. By having
a ten-year-old boy as its main character, the film is able to
present colonial violence through a lens that tries to make sense
of an unimaginable tragedy with such a limited understanding
of what truly happened. Nevertheless, the film challenges this
limitation as it does not shy away from showing how a child is
transformed by the violence of war and everything that comes
with it.
The film opens with a context-building sequence.
It situates the characters and the viewers in the historical
period of the film. It then proceeds to explore the Philippine-
American colonial experience through the consciousness of the
boy Kulas, who travels with his grandfather and, later, a much
younger boy he adopts and names Bola, in the countryside
to avoid the Americans. Throughout the film, the “howling
wilderness” is felt in the desolate landscape of Balangiga and
the barren pathways traversed by the characters, emphasizing
General Smith’s savage order of sparing no one.
Presenting the edges also comes geographically.
Kulas’ grandfather tells him they must follow the interior
trails. They need to avoid the main roads, which are occupied
by Americans. Taking the inner paths makes it more difficult
for them to see and reach their destination, but this is their
advantage. Along these edges, they can assume to be safe, for
this is their land, a land they know, which the Americans do
not.
The film also makes it a point to mention how the
presence of Americans affected the living conditions of the
Filipinos—how it became hard for natives to grow crops and
how they were left with barely anything to eat. This situation is
also seen during the characters’ journey as they ration their food
and how Kulas meets an aging couple with barely any food. The
American occupation has made it challenging to meet even the
bare minimum.
The characters pass by ruins and dead bodies strewn
along their trails throughout the film. Even in his dreams,
Kulas sees images of burning houses and shacks, dreams
interspersed with his waking nightmare. This imagery gives
an idea of the lingering aftermath that the film presents and
that the world after the massacre is not just an aftermath—it
continues. As long as the Americans remain, this situation in
ruins will not go away.
The dead bodies of Filipino natives they encounter
along the way remind them that the war persists and trauma
SHORT TAKE
The journey of Kulas towards an escape. From Balangiga: Howling
Wilderness (Khavn, Kamias Overground, 2017). All images are
author's screenshots of the film
Kulas and Bola in the aftermath of Balangiga
A hut in flames
The American soldier and Kulas
lingers. They had escaped the tragedy only to continue trying to
escape a living horror in pursuit of survival, which seems futile.
As the viewer is taken by the film along the characters’ journey,
they are made to experience what the howling wilderness means
and the emptiness it has left behind.
Innocence and War
Through the lens of a child, the experience of war is
magnified. As Kulas tries to make sense of what is happening
around him, he is made to represent the Filipino native—clad in
blue and red, symbolic colors of the country. Kulas is the image
of the colonial Filipino, and this image becomes more vivid as
the film progresses and his character comes to terms with what
is happening around him. The audience does not see how Kulas
reacts to the massacre as it was happening, a massacre that takes
his father’s life as well as those of everyone else they know in
their neighborhood. It is his journey in our shared aftermath that
the viewers witness.
The film opens with a dream sequence of a flying
carabao, which evokes a combination of the child’s innocence
and the war’s violence. Kulas’s disposition as a child is
emphasized in the film by including his dream sequences filled
with colors, surreal images, his beloved pet, his mother. Primarily,
Kulas’s dreams are a refuge detached from his waking life. In his
dreams, he can do more than just try and survive and keep living.
These dreams are punctuated with his waking up to images of
dead animals and people—a harsh reminder that this is the
reality he must face.
As the film progresses and as the journey of Kulas
deepens, the film presents how Kulas becomes acquainted with
the violence brought by American colonialism. His dreams
become darker. The image of burning houses where he saved
Bola remains in his subconscious and eventually reappears. He
dreams of his family hiding from something he cannot see,
and the film makes it a point to make it feel overwhelming as
if to say that this is fear at its sharpest with how it plays with
light and darkness coupled with the unsettling sound of the
surroundings.
Aside from Kulas, his grandfather, and Bola, the film
presents another character—a lone American soldier who comes
across the protagonists and proceeds to hound them. The soldier
represents American colonization by embodying a dominating
and violent force. In the entirety of the film, this character is the
only direct representative of the presence of American soldiers.
Standing tall next to Kulas and Bola, the American
soldier appears dominant while, by extension, emphasizing the
inferiority of the Filipino (as) children. This juxtaposition recalls
how American colonizers reinforced the image of the Filipino
native as the little brown brother—one who needs the big
civilized American man to live and survive.
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 SHORT TAKE
The innocent boy is transformed in rage
The viewers do not see actual attacks done by the
Americans on the Filipino natives. Still, as this soldier threatens
Kulas and Bola, steals their food, and kills Melchora, their
pet carabao, the film magnifies how this single soldier can
substitute for the entirety of the American soldiers’ atrocities.
As Kulas faces the American soldier, the boy wrestles
with the presence of the aggressor, a threat to his life—an
aggressor who, even in the ruins of the aftermath, is still taking
advantage of what is left behind. This face-off instills in him a
raw and visible rage.
The American soldier is last seen in the film being
attacked by the Filipinos, with Kulas and Bola looking on. This
scene serves as a reimagining of the initial attack launched by
the natives on the American soldiers. It could also be seen as
a materialization of Kulas’s own anger and contempt for the
American soldier who had taken advantage of him and Bola.
As he watches the Filipinos attack the American, he stands
firm, unmoving, weathered from what he had been made to go
through to keep on living.
The Edges of the Colonial Experience
Balangiga presents to its audience the edges of the
Philippine-American colonial experience. The audience is not
made to see the tragedy; Balangiga makes the viewer piece
together the unseen parts of the tragedy. This strategy captures
the American colonial experience from a different perspective,
as if surviving in the country’s national consciousness in
fragments rather than in one straightforward narrative. The
film carefully treads along the edges of the massacre, not
because it wants to cover something up but because it wants to
show something beyond the most obvious.
62
By presenting the edges of a point in history that
needs revisiting for lack of primary and archival evidence,
the film turns the singular story, the journey of Kulas,
his grandfather, and Bola, into one that encapsulates the
Philippine-American colonial experience. Their journey stands
for the journey many Filipinos took during the Philippine-
American War: toward survival and the hope of freedom.
The film makes it a point to not directly point the
viewer to the atrocities done by the American soldiers against
the Filipino natives; what it does is ensure the viewer of
the aggressors’ presence—how it is always there. One feels
this in the echoing gunshots in the middle of Kulas and his
grandfather’s journey. What is heard is not directly seen. The
film offers the idea that what Kulas and his grandfather escaped
from may be a singular event, but it persists, and their escape
does not mean they have already survived.
By leading the viewer to the edges, the film paves
a trail toward a renewed understanding of the Philippine-
American colonial experience. This observation is also to say
that the Balangiga massacre is not isolated and that these
violent attacks, especially their lingering aftermaths, define the
Philippine-American War.
Kulas’s making sense of what is happening around
him forges the process of world-building based on the reality
he grasps as a ten-year-old boy amid a war that has taken
everything away from him. The film does not shy away from
showing how this boy becomes filled with rage, sadness,
frustration—an apparent breaking away from the conventional
expectations of how children should act, feel, or think in a safer
world.
SHORT TAKE
A Forgotten War he hides inside a bell with his family. These scenes reinforce
the magnitude of what the bells represent to the people of
Many refer to the Philippine-American War as a Balangiga. By putting forward the journey of Kulas to survive
forgotten war. The conversation regarding the Philippine- the war and the American colonizers, there is an effort to bring
American War, even at present, is limited. Ileto says that this to light this story again.
situation is because the remembrance of the war goes against
the idea of the Philippine-American friendship embedded in The destination of Kulas, his grandfather, and Bola in
the Filipino consciousness, which is premised on kinship.9 The the film is Biringan, a colorful city full of lights and life, where
artificial sense of friendship between the Philippines and the they will not run out of food, and most importantly, where
United States reinforces the act of forgetting. The “benevolent there are no Americans—a place where they can peacefully live.
assimilation” is an empty proclamation that masked the Biringan is later revealed as a mythical place where engkantos
violence that American colonialism was built upon. reside. Biringan is the refuge that all Filipino natives seek, and
as Kulas’s grandfather nears death, he describes it as everything
The Americans considered Balangiga as one of the last opposite of the landscapes they are traversing. Biringan
two rebel strongholds of the Philippine “insurgency.”10 Perhaps, represents the hope for freedom, a place beyond what Kulas
the United States assumed that occupying the Philippines could imagine.
would be met with no resistance, but the natives proved this
otherwise. Thus, the Balangiga massacre captures the atrocities In Biringan, his grandfather emphasizes that there are
the Americans have done to the country and its people and the “no whites,” no Spaniards and Americans who do nothing but
Filipinos’ resistance even unto death. make them live in suffering. However, perhaps Kulas already
visited Biringan in his dreams, for he sees his mother there.
What Balangiga ultimately achieves in narrating Biringan is where the film ends, as Kulas reaches the end of his
the story of Kulas is emphasizing how the war must be
journey. Although on the way, the war spares no beloved: he
remembered and how its aftermath lingers—how war goes loses his carabao, his grandfather, and then Bola.
beyond physical encounters and direct attacks. Balangiga
depicts the surrounding details, implications, and what we often Beyond Balangiga, the colonial violence the United
choose to disregard or forget, maybe out of fear of accepting States has inflicted upon the Philippines spans unimaginable
what it could mean. There is more to what is already known, the lengths. What happened in Balangiga and the howling
film suggests. The journey of two children and a grandfather wilderness that General Jacob Smith ordered is just a fragment
as they try to escape death from the American soldiers is not of the entire Philippine-American colonial experience. This
a heartwarming or inspiring story. It is harsh. This is what war journey is not something that only Kulas has taken.
looks like beyond the physical encounters and direct attacks:
The howling wilderness seems distant now. The kill
people left behind, lost, hungry, perpetually escaping from the
and burn order may seem far away from the image many have
inescapable.
associated with the “friendly” relationship between America
The persistence of the Philippine-American War’s and Filipinos. However, the howling wilderness echoes on.
aftermath went beyond official dates decided and declared by
the United States. Its effects are not only represented in the
burning houses and dead bodies encountered by the characters
in the film; it is in every journey a Filipino native has taken
in pursuit of escaping the violence and indelible effects of
colonization. Balangiga serves as a memorial—an indictment of
sorts.
Cecille Baello holds a BA in Language and Literature from
The attempts to recover the bells of Balangiga have a
the University of the Philippines Baguio and is currently taking
long history. One of these bells was struck to mark the launch
up MA in Araling Pilipino at the University of the Philippines
of the attack against Company C. The bells, taken away by the
Diliman. She currently works in the education sector.
Americans as war trophies, were returned to the country only
on December 11, 2018.11 This return marked the recovery of an
essential fragment of our colonial past—an object that can help
reclaim the memory of the atrocities and our resistance and
survival.
Balangiga also forms part of this reclamation. Images
of the Balangiga bells are presented in the film in fragments.
At one point, Kulas is seen with the bells, and in one dream,
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Endnotes

1 Kimberly Alidio, “When I Get Home, I Want to Forget: Memory and Amnesia in the Occupied Philippines, 1901-1904,” Social Text, no. 59 (2005): 107.
2 David L. Fritz, “Before the ‘Howling Wilderness’: The Military Career of Jacob Hurd Smith, 1862, 1902,” Military Affairs, no. 43 (1979): 186.
3 See William McKinley, Benevolent Assimilation Proclamation (Washington, DC, 1898).
4 Xave Gregorio, “How Balangiga Bells Were Given Back to PH,” CNN Philippines, December 6, 2018.
5 Robert Welch, “American Atrocities in the Philippines: The Indictment and the Response,” Pacific Historical Review, no. 43 (1974): 251-252.
6 Bob Couttie, Hang the Dogs: The True Tragic History of the Balangiga Massacre (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 2004), 7-9.
7 John M. Gates “War-Related Deaths in the Philippines, 1898-1902,” Pacific Historical Review 53, no. 3 (1984): 367-369.
8 James Brooke, “U.S.-Philippines History Entwined in War Booty,” The New York Times, December 1, 1997.
9 Reynaldo Ileto, “The Philippine-American War: Friendship and Forgetting,” in Vestiges of War: The Philippine-American War and the Aftermath of an Imperial
Dream 1899-1999 (New York: New York University Press, 1999), 4-5; see also a related discussion vis-à-vis cinema in Patrick F. Campos, The End of National
Cinema: Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2016), 468-469.
10 Thomas Bruno, “The Violent End of Insurgency on Samar 1901–1902,” Army History, no. 79 (2011), 36.
11 Gregorio, “How Balangiga Bells Were Given Back to PH.”

64 65
 LONG TAKE
I
t has been widely argued that Hollywood films
are conveyors and transporters of American
mythologies and imperial ideologies of white
exceptionalism, individualism, and nationalism. Trevor
McCrisken and Andrew Pepper point out that post-Cold
War films of Hollywood interrogate but more so reaffirm the
traditional ideals of the United States, operating integrally in its
international imperial ambitions.1 Michael Ryan and Douglas
Kellner, on the other, sustain this argument as they write
that contemporary Hollywood films proved complex in the
United States’ effort of preserving its ideologies, underscoring
conservatism and its re-ascendance after its national defeat in
Vietnam.2 Despite its articulated antiwar themes and critical
sentiments toward American militarism, Hollywood Vietnam
War films share in this propagation. The current essay examines
Vietnam War films shot in the Philippines, focusing mainly
on Oliver Stone’s Platoon (1986). I argue that the film carries
ideologies that induce confluent notions of imperialism and
memory as opposed to its expressed politics and antiwar
sentiments.
I use Renato Rosaldo’s concept of imperialist
nostalgia to unpack how the cinematic conventions and themes
of Platoon recall the imperialist self of the United States,
affecting the nation’s troubled relations with the Philippines
and Vietnam. Rosaldo explains the concept of imperialism as
a “particular type of nostalgia,” in which “people mourn the
passing of what they have transformed” or “[regret] that things
have not remained as they were prior to the intervention.”3
This nostalgia explains a longing or “innocent yearning” for
a past self. Rosaldo also argues that integral to this “mood of
nostalgia” is its power to make “racial domination appear [sic]
innocent and pure.”4
I detect this type of nostalgia in Platoon, in its not
immediately apparent but latent yearning for a return to a past
irrecoverable self, that is, as an empire over the Philippines/
Vietnam. I contend that the film’s chosen filming location
triggers this nostalgia and recalls the earlier colonial contact
between the United States and the Philippines via cinema.
Early American films on the Philippines homogenized,
exoticized, and subordinated native spaces, exertions of power
that are also arguably evident in the production of Platoon,
which is a visual memento of the violence and brutality of
the United States toward the Philippines and Vietnam. The
essay reads Platoon as an expression of the restoration project
of the United States as a dominant player in the geosphere of
Southeast Asia. The film operates as a geopolitical fiction that
maneuvers the image of the United States after its defeat in
Vietnam as a global superpower in post-Cold War history via
the spectacle of a war film.
66
Hollywood and Vietnam
According to John Hellman, the American experience
in Vietnam destroyed facets of American exceptionalism as
it carved a colossal stain in its national history and legacy.5
Unlike previous wars, the encounter in Vietnam damaged the
credibility and political reputation of the United States. With
the United States’ questionable objectives and overwhelming
deployment of armed forces in Asia, the American public was
divided by the Vietnam experience. The so-called Vietnam
war birthed an internal conflict called the Vietnam syndrome,
which Marvin Kalb defined as the “fundamental reluctance to
commit American military power anywhere in the world, unless
it is absolutely necessary to protect the national interests of the
country.”6 This war exposed the US’s weakness during the Cold
War’s most critical junctures.
Only a handful of films were produced during the
actual conflict that tackled the Vietnam experience. The only
Hollywood fictional film that addressed the US involvement
in Vietnam was The Green Berets (1968), an “ultra-right-wing
fantasy” as characterized by Douglas Kellner.7 The John Wayne
starrer, despite its colossal box office score, was heavily criticized
for being “propaganda,” a “cruel and dishonest” depiction of
the Vietnam experience, justifying the US’s ambitious foreign
policy and ambiguous military advancement.8 Other films of
the period, such as M*A*S*H (1970), Catch-22 (1970), Soldier
Blue (1970), and Johnny Got His Gun (1971), only dealt with the
war indirectly.
After the United States’ defeat in Saigon in 1975,
numerous films were produced about the war. The early films
turned to the “returning vet” theme. In their study of American
political films, Ryan and Kellner write that most of these films
featured the narrative of veterans who have become violent,
alienated, confused, and wounded because of the war.9 The
post-traumatic stories, as seen in films like Black Sunday (1977),
Who’ll Stop the Rain (1978), and Coming Home (1978), were
apparent attacks on the US intervention in Vietnam, as they
narrate the damaging physical and mental impact of war on
American soldiers. They question their nation’s militarism,
echoing antiwar sentiments. However, they also served as the
ground for a new political cinematic approach, a restructuring
of American ideals onscreen. Such narratives became the
“psychological basis upon which post-Vietnam Americas
are enlisted into the new militarism,” signaling “a source of
resentment.”10
This motif of the returning vet pervaded the 1970s
Vietnam war films until new themes appeared from the late
1970s onward. Richard Slotkin argues that this new era’s films
were neoconservative, seeking to “revivify the American war
imaginary” and “re-imagine the scenarios of cinematic heroism
in the light of post-Vietnam disillusion.”11 Simultaneously,
the Vietnam syndrome also gradually disappeared during the
LONG TAKE
period, making the US venture its return to the international political and
military sphere. The apparent return of the United States to the “jungles”
of Vietnam can be seen in the films The Deer Hunter (1978), Apocalypse
Now (1979), Platoon, Full Metal Jacket (1987), and the Rambo series (1982,
1985, 1988).
Platoon in the Philippines
Directed by Oliver Stone, who is also known for his provocative
historical films, Platoon focuses on the story of a young man, Chris Taylor
(Charlie Sheen), who enlists for military duties in Vietnam. On the
battlefield, Taylor discovers the horrors of war, which gradually destroys
his sanity. The film was acclaimed for its exceptional rendition of the
Vietnam experience, emphasizing the layers of relational struggles, moral
dilemmas, and internal conflicts that the characters face throughout
the war. Platoon is often considered the cinematic pinnacle of Stone’s
filmography, paving the way for his rise as a respected director in
Hollywood. The film is the first part of his Vietnam war trilogy, followed
by Born on the Fourth of July (1989) and the deemed pro-Vietnamese
Heaven and Earth (1993). However, as John Kleinen claims, Platoon
was not the first film Stone created about Vietnam, as he earlier made a
short film titled Last Year in Viet Nam (1971) in the film class of Martin
Scorsese.12
After the Vietnamese government rejected Stone’s request to
film in Vietnam because of the possible problematic portrayal of their
native troops, the Philippines became the primary filming location for
Platoon.13 Platoon was mainly shot in Manila, Cavite, and Laguna.14
As presented in the documentary Platoon: Brothers in Arms (2018),
intensive military training was commissioned before filming began, led
by Vietnam war veteran Dale Dye. It placed the actors in a simulacrum
of the Vietnam experience as they coursed through the jungles of the
Philippines, living as deployed military men.
A parallel spectacle attends the production of Platoon. Filming
started in February 1986, as the EDSA Revolution that overthrew the
dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos was happening. In his autobiography,
Stone narrates that the production of Platoon was nearly halted because
of the political unrest.15 Some actors decided to leave due to the looming
danger. Despite the complications, the film continued its production for
seven weeks with a budget of $6 million, as written in the encyclopedia
about Oliver Stone.16 In an interview with Rappler, Jun Juban, the local
film coordinator, shared his production experience:
Oliver Stone on the set of Platoon. Screenshots from Paul
It was a very tough shoot, made even more complicated when
Sanchez’s Platoon: Brothers in Arms (Power Background
it was being done right in the middle of the EDSA Revolution. Productions, 2018). All images are author's screenshots of
We had to delay the start of filming for about a week. Luckily, the films
after Marcos left, I was able to talk to General Fidel Ramos.
He allowed us to proceed with the filming in spite of the fact
that my DND (Department of National Defense) contract
and approval were with the past regime… I can only say that
if Ramos did not say yes, Platoon would have never been made,
and Oliver would not have been Oliver.17
67
 LONG TAKE
Platoon was released in December of the same year. It
received positive reviews from critics and the public and numerous
awards, including four Academy Awards for Best Picture, Best
Director for Stone, Best Sound, and Best Film Editing. The film
grossed almost $140 million at the box office. It was eventually
included in the American Film Institute’s 100 YEARS… 100
MOVIES list and selected for being culturally, historically, and
aesthetically significant and worthy of film preservation by the
National Film Registry of the Library of Congress.18 It also
influenced the war genre and paved the way for other Vietnam War
films, including Hanoi Hilton (1987), Gardens of Stone (1987), and
Full Metal Jacket (1987).19
Platoon was renowned for its excellent simulacrum of the
Vietnam War experience, particularly its depiction of war realism.
The realistic approach to the film’s story is credited to Stone’s
experience in Vietnam.20 This approach was integral as it forms part
of Stone’s motive in pushing for the progressive, countercultural,
and antiwar agenda of Platoon. Stone presented his socio-political
critique through his Manichean characterization of Staff Sergeant
Bob Barnes (Tom Berenger) and Sergeant Elias Gordon (Willem
Dafoe), as well as Taylor, his onscreen alter ego. With the creative
intervention of Stone, Randy Roberts and David Welky describe
that Platoon moved beyond a “Francis Ford Coppola, Sylvester
Stallone, or Chuck Norris” kind of Vietnam war film, which
“embraced the war as a commercial vehicle,” but rather an “antiwar
literature” that “smacked against the political currents of Hollywood
and Washington.”21 However, despite these critical assertions,
Oliver Gruner notes that Stone was “a filmmaker yet to gain any
real status within an industry” that focuses solely on commercial
success, making him shape the film “in such a way as to avoid
alienating certain, particularly conservative, audience demographics,”
consequently aligning himself and his film with the traditional
conventions of Hollywood.22
The cast undergoing the intensive military program.
Flirting with Orientalism
Screenshot from Paul Sanchez’s Platoon: Brothers in Arms
(Power Background Productions, 2018)
Political and cultural complexities emerge in selecting the
Philippines as the film’s location. Hollywood has a long history of
using foreign landscapes as locations for its films and apparently
considers the Philippines and Vietnam as similar or identical
geographies. The Philippine landscapes consistently appeared in the
films of early American cinema pioneers, including Elias Burton
Holmes and C. Fred Ackerman. Patrick Campos argues that these
early films were essential components of the “logic of national
expansion” of the United States as it “annexed Philippine landscapes
to Hollywood in the early years of cinema.”23 In the current case,
the annexation and colonization are on the actual landscape of the
Philippines, the film space of Platoon and cinematic Vietnam.
Hollywood has repeatedly chosen the Philippines as a film
location since the 1950s. One of these was Fritz Lang’s American
Guerilla in the Philippines (1950). In their historical essay of post-
war Philippine cinema, Gaspar Vibal and Dennis Villegas write
68
LONG TAKE
that the film was remarked because of its positive reviews, but
mostly for imbuing the Philippines with the “reputation [of ]
being a choice spot among low-cost, talent-filled shooting
locations” for American films.24 For the same reason, numerous
B movies or low-budget commercial motion pictures were
shot in the Philippines up to the 1970s. In his study of made-
for-US Philippine films, Leong Yew notes that the tropical
country became a constant location for “war films, jungle
horror, blaxploitation, and women-in-captivity films” made
for the American market, such as those directed by Filipino
directors like Cirio H. Santiago, Gerardo de Leon, and Eddie
Romero, in creative acts that may be deemed as forms of Behind the scenes photos of filming Platoon in the Philippines. Screenshot
self-exoticization.25 The American industrial utilization of the from Paul Sanchez’s Platoon: Brothers in Arms (Power Background Productions,
2018)
Philippines as a filming location continued in the following
decades, eventually in bigger films, such as The Year of Living
and instead bleeds them out for cinematic enjoyment and
Dangerously (1982), Brokedown Palace (1999), Thirteen Days
entertainment.
(2000), The Bourne Legacy (2012), and numerous Vietnam War
films.
Similar to Ellen Strain’s contestation of spaces
Many of these films are supposed to stand in for and tourist gaze, this exoticization and Othering involves
other Southeast Asian countries—for example, The Year of “a negotiation of boundaries in order to bolster a sense
Living Dangerously and Brokedown Palace are set in Thailand, of self ” of the West.27 In relation, Wendy Gan posits that
while Apocalypse Now, The Boys in Company C (1978), Missing “the exotic comes to seem less a space of possibility than
in Action (1984), Platoon, and Born on the Fourth of July, in one of impossibility.”28 The imperialism conducted in the
Vietnam—and some cases, Latin American countries like transitioning centuries of the nineteenth to twentieth reduced
Cuba, as with Thirteen Days. The films are shot somewhere that “elsewhere space of the Other” as “rampant imperialism
other than where they are set narratively, in places Western absorb[ing] the Other into the body of the [Western Self ]
audiences would fail to recognize or distinguish the difference. and thereby effacing the very ground of exoticism.”29 This
This practice discloses the homogenizing treatment of the absorption is rehearsed in the conceptual and onscreen
American film industry toward countries that form part of the colonization of the Philippines-as-location in Platoon.
Third World. Thus, in these films, the Philippines is visible yet
Moreover, the decision to take the Philippines-as-
also entirely invisible.
Vietnam unwittingly recalls the United States’s colonizing
This tendency is part of a long-held Orientalist self, prioritizing exoticization, and taking for granted cultural
tradition. Relying on the “imaginative geography” of the superiority. The decision also summons the memory of early
West, Said argues how the East/Orient is described as “an films about the Philippines. The cinematic schemes and
enclosed space” that is distant yet affixed from the West and techniques used in early American films set in the Philippines
are reactivated, functioning similarly to sustain imperialist
whose “role… is to represent the larger whole from which
they emanate.”26 Such imperialist imaginations and colonialist motives. Hence, Platoon assumes the role of an accessory that
assumptions homogenize “other” cultures and histories, supplies the longing for American imperiality.
including their geographies and environments. Thus, it is a way
Abjection of Identities
of seeing and not seeing the Philippines, figuring its absence
onscreen. Its presence is rendered only as a backdrop while it Despite its antiwar themes, Platoon’s simultaneously
plays a minimal role, in most cases none, in the films’ narratives. deliberate, unwitting, and double-faced vision of the
Philippines-as-Vietnam betrays an imperialist nostalgia
The Hollywood industrial use of foreign landscapes,
that assumes American superiority. As Taylor describes his
such as the Philippines, as cinematic material parallels the
war experience in the film, “We did not fight the enemy, we
US colonial annexation and absorption of foreign lands in
fought ourselves.”30 In other words, in Platoon, subjective
their territory, history, and visual culture. The choice of the
narratives wrestle only with the imperial self, not the Filipinos
Philippines as the filming location of Platoon registers an
nor the Vietnamese. This reading agrees with what many
imperial attitude in the industrial disregard for the unique
analyses assert about Vietnam War films. According to Marita
histories and cultures of the Philippines and Vietnam,
Sturken, such narratives have “the impact of erasing the war
histories, and cultures that the United States altered through
of and with the Vietnamese, not only the terrible numbers of
colonization and intervention. It loosely yet forcefully ignores
their dead but the story of the skilled Vietnamese army and
and depoliticizes their fierce anti-colonial national struggles
69
 LONG TAKE
Throughout the film, the Vietnamese were rendered as invisible, only presented as shadows, difficult to see in the film space. Screenshot from Oliver Stone’s
Platoon (Orion Pictures, 1986)
guerrillas that ultimately defeated the United States.”31 This
limited and personalistic framing of the Vietnam experience
reveals Hollywood’s complicated approach to the narratives
surrounding the war.
This prioritization of the one-sided thematic
exposition of the American militaries’ personal experiences
disturbs anxieties about the power of representations in
the film. Other than the limits of narrativity, the politics of
film space also play a vital role in illustrating power. Central
dispositions on the film screen connote dominance. In the
entirety of Platoon, the consumption of American military
men of the film space is consistent. The camera prioritizes
the display of American bodies, while the Vietnamese remain
invisible and, in some instances, appear only as shadows. Worse,
Renny Christopher avers: “The NVA are portrayed as a ghostly,
monstrous enemy; they’re the manifest malevolence of the
jungle itself, materializing out of darkness and mist.”32
This manipulation of space recalls the cinematic
conventions and techniques used by the United States in its
early war films on the Philippines, which include the staged
and fake newsreels created by several American cinema
pioneers. In unmasking the imperiality of these fake newsreels,
Nick Deocampo articulates how the absence and presence of
Filipinos support the spatial domination of the aggressors:
The Filipinos are present in the [films] while being
absent physically… Their absent presence fulfills
70
a function in the creation of fiction while also
reinforcing the imperialist motivation that is reason
for their creation: depicting Filipinos as enemies to
be conquered. As Filipino independence fighters
are vanquished… the imperialist imaginary—and
cinematic desire—become fulfilled: American
soldiers colonize the screen and declare victory. This
is how “history” became written on screen—through
the imagination of one American (White), who by
his act of filming, history also became encoded on
celluloid.33
The use of film space in Platoon is reminiscent, perpetuating
the colonial imperatives of the United States in a different
context yet with similar motives but more insidiously veiled
as with antiwar sentiments. It stipulates the command of the
United States on spatial power relations as it simulates the
abjection of other histories and cultures. As Rolando Tolentino
opines in his articulation of film space in early American films,
Platoon underscores the “masculine imperialist dominance” of
the United States as it exposes the feminized positioning of the
Philippines and Vietnam.34
This utilization of film space for power relates to the
idea of the racialization of space. It is argued that colonization
coincided with the development of cinema. Deocampo
posits that “early American cinema and US imperialism
are inextricably bound together.”35 Since its early years of
colonization, the United States has taken advantage of cinema,
LONG TAKE
utilizing its power to render its cultural superiority and the
inferiority of its colonized territories like the Philippines.
Early films have capitalized on racial ideology. As discussed
by Mark Rice in his book on American imperialism and
visuality, these films depict the “savage” bodies of the natives in
“ethnographic” films and photographs such as those by Dean
Worcester, subsequently creating what Nerissa Balce terms the
US imperial archive.36 Platoon, unlike most Vietnam War films,
seems to shift away from the racialization of the Vietnamese.
However, in the film, as Kleinen observes, “the enemy (Viet
Cong and the North Vietnamese Army [or] NVA) remains
hidden for most” and “exists just off camera, hidden by
jungle, as fleeting shadows, or corpses.”37 This assumes the
constructed hierarchy that makes the Other—in this case,
the Vietnamese—removed from the screen, spatially evicted,
rendered out of sight, no different from the erasure of Filipinos
in early American films shot in the Philippines. Similar with
Patrick Campos’ assertion in his study of memory, film, and
history, the absence on the screen complicates the troubled
history of the Vietnam War as it erases the struggle and victory
of the Vietnamese and consequently rewrites the narrative that
benefits the United States in the same vein that it forgets the
Philippine-American war.38
Spatial Colonization
Platoon is one of the first, preceded by Apocalypse
Now, to engage the intense cinematic vision of the jungles
of Vietnam. However, Platoon differs in its exposition of
terror. Kleinen detects this exposition in the film’s camera
positioning, rendered to be “always inside the jungle to give an
impression of the soldiers’ view of being surrounded by a hostile
environment.”39 The jungle is a crucial aspect of the defeat
of the United States Armed Forces in Vietnam. Referencing
a United States Army’s field manual during the Vietnam
War, Daniel Clayton cites that the “US troops had a fatal
attraction to the jungle, viewing it as a dark space at the verge
of death” and treating it as a “key ‘obstacle’ to American combat
effectiveness and placed a ‘hypnotic spell’ on the physical
resolve and mental discipline of US troops;” this conflicted
attraction is visually translated in Platoon.40
The film opens with scenes of a dichotomy. It initially
shows an innocent Taylor entering Vietnam, and then a weary
soldier exiting Vietnam. It soon cuts into a panning high-angle
shot of the jungle and later a panning low-angle shot that
exposes the jungle timber’s height, introducing the film’s terrain.
What follows are scenes of military men trekking in the jungle.
Platoon shows bodily discomfort as the men ascend unfamiliar
terrains and navigate through the thick of trees and shrubs.
Focusing on Taylor makes apparent the uneasiness and physical
exhaustion. As Kellner observes, Platoon focuses on projecting
“the fear, the uncertainty, and the brutalization undergone by
The film is consistent in showing how the jungles of Vietnam served as
adversary to the platoon. Screenshot from Oliver Stone’s Platoon (Orion
Pictures, 1986)
young Americans thrown into the jungles of Nam.”41
This kind of visual framing defines the discourse
surrounding the Othering of geographies. Clayton argues that
“American geopolitical and military discourse had long been
imbued with environmental assumptions about how climatic
extremes of cold and hot mapped on to binaries of good
and evil, progress and backwardness.”42 David John Arnold
explores this idea in the concept of tropicality, which refers
to how the West constructs and imagines the geographies of
the East, considering it as the environmental Other of the
former.43 In this view, the East is homogenized as part of the
“tropics” or lands characterized by extreme heat, moisture,
humidity, and torridity. However, as Arnold explains, the
tropics become conceptual in the Western mind and are
described as “something culturally and politically alien, as well
as environmentally distinctive, from Europe and other parts
of the temperate zone.”44 In imperial nostalgia, space is often
tropicalized, correlated with the strangeness, primitiveness,
pestilence, and peculiarity that would eventually be tamed.
Tropical space perpetuates an imperialist dichotomy, with
binaries that subordinate the East as backward, barbaric, filthy,
evil, and in some cases, the adversary, the negative of the West
that is developed, civilized, comfortable, clean, and good.
Such geographical Othering is present in early
American films set in the Philippines. Deocampo argues that
Americans relied on depicting the Philippines as tropical,
backward, and culturally retarded in the films of Dean
Worcester and Clarence Miller.45 Often considered “educational
films” aimed at providing the American public with the
knowledge of their colony in the Pacific, Rice probes that
these films argue that “the United States should not relinquish
control of the Philippines, both for the good of US interest in
the region and for the good of the people of the Philippines.”46
Thus, though seemingly worlds apart, the tropicalization of
the Philippines and later Vietnam are premised on the same
imperialist attitude, with the latter imbued with a strange
combination of terror and nostalgia.
71
 LONG TAKE
Violence and Memories
A particular scene in Platoon further exposes the
film’s complexity, evidencing the terror inscribed in nostalgia
and longing for a past imperialist self. It is widely known
and documented that the primary basis for condemning the
American intervention in Vietnam was the extreme violence
that American soldiers inflicted on the local population. The
most notorious of these acts of violence was the Mỹ Lai
massacre. In March 1968, at the brutal hands of American
soldiers, unarmed Vietnamese were raped, mutilated, and killed
in what is considered by Bernd Greiner as the most horrific of
Vietnam War scenes.47 According to William Thomas Allison,
the casualties numbered more than 500.48
Other than its realistic approach to the jungle
experience, Platoon was the first film to dwell on portraying
the massacre, which was evaded by earlier Vietnam War
films. It reveals the mercilessness of American military men
as it renders scenes of maltreatment, physical abuse, and rape.
However, the most violent scene comes unexpectedly when
Staff Sergeant Bob Barnes shoots a Vietnamese native. Asking
for information on the whereabouts of the Viet Cong, Barnes
kills the native and holds his daughter for another forceful
interrogation. The brutality is stopped by Sergeant Elias
Gordon, resulting in a physical fight between the two sergeants.
After instilling terror in the community, the American military
men set the village ablaze.
Memories perform with severity in the scene. Initially,
it recalls the unnecessary violence of American military
men in Vietnam, as shared by Stone in an interview, stating
that the scene is to be a “reminder of war atrocities.”49 The
72
Scenes from the village attack in Platoon, recalling the Mỹ Lai massacre of
1968. Screenshots from Oliver Stone’s Platoon (Orion Pictures, 1986)
uncanny similarity between the film scenes and photographs
of the massacre seems to blur the line separating reality and
fiction. In other words, it functions as a visual memento. At
the same time, the tragedy in Vietnam is reminiscent of a
similar massacre that occurred in the Philippines during the
early stages of US imperialism. In 1901, General Jacob Smith
notoriously ordered his men to annihilate Filipinos on the
island of Balangiga in Samar. As a reaction to a local attack,
the general commanded his soldiers to make the “interior of
Samar” a “howling wilderness.” According to Thomas Bruno’s
study of the event, Smith is reported to have said, “I want no
prisoners. I wish you to kill and burn. The more you kill and
burn, the better it will please me… I want all persons killed
who can bear arms in actual hostilities against the United
States.”50 The tragedy, which will be remembered as the
Balangiga massacre, is estimated to have killed thousands of
LONG TAKE
natives, including children, making it one of the most brutal
operations of the United States.
It is not difficult to recognize the similarities between
the tragedy in Balangiga and the massacre in Mỹ Lai. The
latter’s depiction in the film serves as a perverted and veiled
articulation of imperialist nostalgia as the United States
recalls its imperialist violence through Platoon. The Mỹ Lai
massacre scenes operate as visual articulations of the violence
and brutality of the United States, critiqued, and therefore
redeemed, in an anti-Vietnam War film. However, they Scene from the last battle that heavily killed most of the platoon.
simultaneously summon and gloss over the Balangiga and other Screenshot from Oliver Stone’s Platoon (Orion Pictures, 1986)
massacres in the Philippines before Vietnam, similar to how
Philippine-American War films mediate and forget history.51
Confluent Frontiers and Regeneration
Toward the film’s end, the titular platoon is assigned
to defend the front lines. A military disaster ensues as the
soldiers are overwhelmed by an unexpected NVA assault. The
nightfall encounter results in numerous casualties on the side
of the Americans. In the chaos, Taylor goes berserk, charging
toward the unseen enemy, randomly firing his rifle, and killing The Sergeant Dane Moment as war violence consumes Taylor. Screenshot
anyone on his way. In the thick of the moment, he shouts from Oliver Stone’s Platoon (Orion Pictures, 1986)
with obscenity: “It’s […] beautiful,” as the violence of the war
consumes him. Taylor undergoes a personal metamorphosis,
from entering Vietnam as a naïve idealist and leaving it as a
beast who survives. In the jungles, the experience fails to teach
Taylor to abandon violence; instead, by implication, he learns
“how to properly use it,” as argued by McCrisken and Pepper.52
Platoon is analogous to other Vietnam War films
This transformation represents the nostalgia of during the 1980s that negotiated the reconstruction of the US
an earlier cinematic convention called the Sergeant Dane reputation in the post-Vietnam War era, contributing to the
Moment. Referencing the propaganda film Bataan (1943), exposition of ideologies like the revisionist neoconservatism
Robert Slotkin describes the convention as the scene where the of the period. Moreover, as Laurence Castillo implies in
hero “screams his rage and disgust as he lays down annihilating his articulation of films that used the Philippines as a
fire” against his enemies.53 Such a scene in the concluding parts location, Platoon also operates as a geopolitical fiction of
of the film urges the viewers “to finish the job the platoon has the United States that executes “representational violence”
started, to learn the enemy’s lesson and win the war.”54 It is an on imperial territories, including the Philippines and
indirect invitation to continue supporting the war and proceed Vietnam, undermining their respective national “presences
with the nation’s unfinished business. In a similar filmic and specificities.”56 Although it functions as an antiwar film
fashion, Taylor’s moment of metamorphosis assumes the same in the United States, Platoon fails to diverge from earlier
motives, capping the violence the film criticizes by showing the American War films, which concentrate on defending and
protagonist’s ultimate hatred of the enemy. sustaining American imperial ideals and national myths in
different contexts and temporalities. Instead, the film acts as
Violence operates as an integral component in Platoon.
an expression of soft power that strengthens the American
Identical to Rolando Tolentino’s assertion on other films on
narrative of penitence and redemption while it weakens the
the Vietnam War shot in the Philippines, notably Apocalypse
story of Vietnam’s struggles and rehearses but ultimately forgets
Now, Platoon “[refurbishes] history” in its compelling conflation
the violence of the Americans against Filipinos. Revealingly, the
where the “national heritage” of the two nations is “salvaged,
Orientalist homogenization and tropicalization of Philippine
resituated, and rehistoricized into a workable narrative.”55
and Vietnamese spaces expose the nostalgic foundation of the
This filmic utilization of violence underlines the imperialist
United States’ continuing imperial ambitions; they also provide
imperatives embedded in the film, functioning as a cinematic
the means to critique the violence depicted, remembered, and
device that supports the US effort to erase its stained national
forgotten by an American antiwar film.
identity and failed intervention in Vietnam.
73
 LONG TAKE
John Adrianfer Atienza is a faculty of the Araling Panlipunan Department of Marist School Marikina. He has researched
historical films, war newsreels, and western films in Philippine cinema. He is currently undertaking his Master’s degree in
Philippine Studies at the Asian Center, University of the Philippines Diliman.
Endnotes
1 Trevor McCrisken and Andrew Pepper, American History and
Contemporary Hollywood Film (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press,
2005), 10-12.
2 Michael Ryan and Douglas Kellner, Camera Politico: The Politics and
Ideology of Contemporary Hollywood Film (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1990), 1-2.
3 Renato Rosaldo, Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1989), 69-70.
4 Ibid., 68.
5 John Hellman, American Myth and the Legacy of Vietnam (New York:
Columbia University Press, 2008), x-xi.
6 Marvin Kalb, “It’s Called the Vietnam Syndrome, and It’s Back,”
Brookings, January 22, 2013, accessed on September 25, 2022, www.
brookings.edu/blog/up-front/2013/01/22/its-called-the-vietnam-
syndrome-and-its-back/.
7 Douglas Kellner, Media Culture: Cultural Studies, Identity, and
Politics between the Modern and the Postmodern (London: Routledge,
1995), 118.
8 Roger Ebert, “Reviews: The Green Berets,” Roger Ebert.com, June
26, 1968, accessed on September 25, 2022, www.rogerebert.com/
reviews/the-green-berets-1968.
9 Ryan and Kellner, Camera Politico, 197-198.
10 Ibid., 198.
11 Richard Slotkin, “Thinking Mythologically: Black Hawk Down, the
‘Platoon Movie,’ and the War of Choice in Iraq,” European Journal of
American Studies 12, no. 2 (2017): 7.
12 John Kleinen, “Framing ‘the Other’: A Critical Review of Vietnam
War Movies and their Representation of Asians and Vietnamese,”
Asia Europe Journal 1 (2003): 445.
13 Jesse Beckett, “Fascinating Facts About ‘Platoon’—Oliver Stone’s
Best Movie,” War History Online, June 23, 2021, accessed on
September 25, 2022, https://www.warhistoryonline.com/war-
articles/platoon-facts.html.
14 Ruben Nepales, “[Only IN Hollywood] Oliver Stone talks about his
memoir, ‘Platoon’ shoot in Philippines,” Rappler, August 12, 2020,
accessed on September 25, 2022, www.rappler.com/life-and-style/
literature/oliver-stone-memoir-chasing-the-light/.
15 Oliver Stone, Chasing the Light: Writing, Directing, and Surviving
Platoon, Midnight Express, Scarface, Salvador, and the Movie Game
(Boston: Mariner Books, 2020), 281-282.
16 James Welsh and Donald Whaley, The Oliver Stone Encyclopedia
(Lanham: The Scarecrow Press, Inc., 2013), 186.
17 Nepales, “Oliver Stone talks about his memoir.”
18 David Morgan, “2019 additions to the National Film Registry,”
CBN News, December 11, 2019, accessed on September 25, 2022,
www.cbsnews.com/pictures/national-film-registry-2019-library-of-
congress/5/.
19 Kleinen, “Framing ‘‘the Other,’’ 157.
20 Welsh and Whaley, The Oliver Stone Encyclopedia, 185.
21 Randy Roberts and David Welky, “A Sacred Mission: Oliver Stone
and Vietnam,” in Oliver Stone’s USA: Film, History, and Controversy,
ed. Robert Brent Toplin (Kansas: University Press of Kansas, 2000),
76.
22 Oliver Gruner, “Vietnam and Beyond: Rethinking Oliver Stone’s
Platoon (1976-2006),” Rethinking History: The Journal of Theory and
Practice 16, no. 3 (2012): 366.
23 Patrick Campos, The End of National Cinema: Filipino Film at the
Turn of the Century (Quezon City: University of the Philippines
Press, 2016), 347.
74
24 Gaspar Vibal and Dennis Villegas, Philippine Cinema, 1897-2020 (Quezon
City: Vibal, 2020), 83.
25 Leong Yew, “Sympathetic Collaboration and the Made-for-US Philippine
Films of the 1950s to 1970s,” Screen 59, no. 2 (2018): 176.
26 Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978), 64.
27 Ellen Strain, Public Places, Private Journeys Ethnography, Entertainment, and the
Tourist Gaze (New Jersey: Rutgers University Press, 2003), 17.
28 Wendy Gan, “Tropical Hong Kong: Narratives of Absence and Presence in
Hollywood and Hong Kong Films of the 1950s and 1960s,” Singapore Journal
of Tropical Geography 29 (2008): 9.
29 Ibid., 9.
30 Platoon, directed by Oliver Stone (Los Angeles, CA: Orion Pictures, 1986).
31 Marita Sturken, “Reenactment, Fantasy, and the Paranoia of History: Oliver
Stone’s Docudramas,” History and Theory 36, no. 4 (1997): 69.
32 Renny Christopher, “Negotiating the Viet Nam War through Permeable
Genre Borders: Aliens as Viet Nam War Film; Platoon as Horror Film,” Lit:
Literature Interpretation Theory 5, no. 1 (1994): 62.
33 Nick Deocampo, Film: American Influences on Philippine Cinema
(Mandaluyong: Anvil Publishing, 2011), 111.
34 Rolando Tolentino, ed., Geopolitics of the Visible: Essays on Philippine Film
Cultures (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2000), xi.
35 Nick Deocampo, “Cinema and Colonization: American Colonization and
the Rise of Cinema in the Philippines,” Comparative American Studies: An
International Journal 5, no. 2 (2007): 147.
36 Mark Rice, Dean Worcester’s Fantasy Islands: Photography, Film, and the Colonial
Philippines (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2015); Nerissa
Balce, Body Parts of Empire: Visual Abjection, Filipino Images, and the American
Archive (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2017).
37 Kleinen, “Framing ‘the Other,’” 158.
38 Campos, The End of National Cinema, 471-472.
39 Kleinen, “Framing ‘the Other,’” 158.
40 Daniel Clayton, “Militant Tropicality: War, Revolution, and the
Reconfiguration of ‘the Tropics’ c.1940-c.1975,” Transactions of the Institute of
British Geographers 38, no. 1 (2013): 187.
41 Kellner, Media Culture, 119.
42 Clayton, “Militant Tropicality,” 185.
43 David John Arnold, The Tropics and the Traveling Gaze: India, Landscape, and
Science, 1800-1856 (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006), 110-112.
44 Ibid., 35.
45 Deocampo, Film, 138-139.
46 Rice, Dean Worcester’s Fantasy Islands, 165.
47 Bernd Greiner, War Without Fronts: The USA in Vietnam (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 2010), 344.
48 William Thomas Allison, My Lai: An American Atrocity in the Vietnam War
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2012), 130.
49 “My Lai movie to be reminder of war atrocities: Stone,” Reuters, September 7,
2007, accessed on September 25, 2022, www.reuters.com/article/us-vietnam-
stone-mylai-idUSHAN10194020070907.
50 Thomas Bruno, “The Violent End of Insurgency on Samar 1901-1902,” Army
History 79 (2011): 39.
51 Campos, The End of National Cinema, 471.
52 McCrisken and Pepper, American History, 151.
53 Slotkin, “Thinking Mythologically,” 5.
54 Ibid., 5.
55 Rolando Tolentino, “Popular Discourse of Vietnam in the Philippines,”
Philippine Studies 50, no. 2 (2002): 230.
56 Laurence Marvin Castillo, “Monsters in the Pacific: The Philippines in the
Hollywood Geopolitical Imaginary,” Kritika Kultura, no. 29 (2017): 85.
75
 REACTION SHOT
I
thought my years of sleuthing inside archives for
information to help me construct a history of
cinema in the Philippines prepared me enough
to breeze through a book like Vernadette Vicuña Gonzales’s
Empire’s Mistress starring Isabel Rosario Cooper (2021). Picking
up the book, however, I was pleasantly surprised to find that
the author can still make me sit up and wonder and ask about
how archives can yield or hide secrets that could provide
knowledge or the absence of it; or as the author herself writes
about colonial archives, how they can be a “ruse of power.”1 Her
book says a lot about archives as it does about Isabel Rosario
Cooper, the subject of the book whose story she pieces together
from the generosity or frugality of archives, depending on how
the author succeeds or fails in her mission to find traces of
her subject’s life. One even gets the feeling that the archive is
as much a character in her story as it is about her protagonist.
The book’s narrative leads us through a labyrinthine tale
pockmarked by crevices and ruptures that speak about absences
and disruptions, eschewing a neat closure for its end. It
even leaves blank pages at the book’s end for future archives,
apocrypha and fictions to be filled in.
The main story deals with Isabel Cooper’s (mis)
adventures in life that lead her from the vaudeville stage in
Manila to the studio lots in Hollywood, behind which the story
of empire and colony cast their heavy shadows over her life. In
the granular retelling of her hiccup-ed life, the author succeeds
in portraying someone as fragile as a feather who could stand
to power but, just the same, gets rolled over by the greater
forces engulfing her. The author does this engagingly by poking
into the master narrative of America’s imperial past with the
story of a woman caught in the colliding forces of history and a
failed romance. Once shrouded in mystery and secrecy but now
under a beam of light shed by Gonzales, Isabel’s story opens
up a chapter in the colonial relations between the US and the
Philippines, hard pressed between history and affect.
It was in Hollywood when I first heard about Isabel
Rosario Cooper’s secret. I was in a busload of documentary
filmmakers on the way to an International Documentary
Association conference when a middle-aged woman seated
beside me started a conversation. Upon knowing I was from
the Philippines, she quietly slid into our conversation a hushed
question about whether I knew Isabel Cooper. I told her what
little I knew about her being a famous silent movie star who
did the unthinkable of getting kissed on the lips; the first to be
seen on the Philippine screen. Then, in a hushed voice drowned
almost by the boisterous chatting of other filmmakers, she told
me about her interest in making a documentary about her. I
asked why. This was when I first heard about Isabel’s being
Previous page: Empire's Mistress book cover
76
Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s mistress. This exchange happened
while our bus was cruising along Sunset Boulevard, which this
lady pointed out must have been where Isabel once lived when
she was in Hollywood. With nothing to tell her, I found myself
being told a story I hardly knew. Coming in fragments, I was
never able to piece together Isabel’s story for years after that
incident on the bus. The actress remained a mystery to me—
until Gonzales’s book came along and rivetted me to a tale of
romance and intrigue and everything in between. But did the
book shake away the mystery? Or did it only add more to it?
It took almost thirty years since I first heard about
the story of a Filipina in search of fame under the Hollywood
sky. Before reaching her dreamland, she was under other
skies—in Manila, Washington DC, and others. Gonzales’s
book, while giving details about Isabel that have for so long
been left unknown, adds only to the mystique surrounding
her personality. While creating a narrative about a mistress’s
tale, the story only becomes more intriguing as one piece of
information leads its readers to other befuddling facts about
her life. The effect is one of trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle. Or
perhaps, a riddle. A conundrum. One never gets to figure out
the entire tale about Isabel as pieces about her life are scattered,
with many parts missing. But after this book, Isabel’s story can
no longer be a gossip told in hushed voices.
Gonzales provides incontestable documents and
has struggled to piece together a fragmented tale in a form
that mirrors the splintered life of her subject, a life which, as
Gonzales continually reminds us, reflects the violence wrought
in the Filipinos’ life by their experience of colonialism. The
author’s struggle in writing the book shows in the way it takes
on a constructivist form, composed of archival documents
and library shreds of evidence mixed with imagined fiction, to
paint a cubist look at her subject. “Just as Isabel Cooper’s life
defies easy categorization, so too must the forms that attend to
narrate it.”2 This Gonzales does well.
For how does one write a story about someone
whose life was broken into unnamed chapters and unwritten
scenarios? By Gonzales’s admission, she sought succor in places
where she could find whatever fragments were left behind of
Isabel’s life history. In archives. In libraries. In movie studio
records. She sought this in film trade magazines. Perhaps even
in gossip columns. Anywhere she could find traces of Isabel’s
existential moments on earth. She sought this in obituaries, too,
ascertaining what was said after the actress was gone. Despite
being rewarded in her search with documents that could help
her build a narrative, Gonzales was met with challenges every
step of the way. She found a death certificate but not the
findings for Isabel’s suicide, records of which went missing. She
traced the amorous letters of the mistress’s military paramour
but not of her own because, perhaps, she never wrote back. She
found photographs of her bit-role career, all smiling and acting,
but not one to show her in candid, real-life images—in her
REACTION SHOT
ordinary clothes perhaps—to show her in the greatest role she
ever played, which was to live. I saw no picture reprinted in the
book that showed Isabel as a genuine person behind the acting
and the posed shots. Although, maybe as an afterthought, the
photos showed the real Isabel Cooper. That was the reality she
wanted everyone to remember of her.
In the absence of data, the author resorts to the
imagination. It is not a wayward imagination but one shaped
by history. And it is a history written large over the nimble life
of a tragic heroine. It is a history of imperialism, one country
wanting to dominate another. That domination is best shown
by the author in what could be seen as the uncommon traits of
Isabel’s true-to-life condition. “As with stories narrated just off
the axes of power, the interrelated workings of gender, sexuality
and race are essential to the telling.”3 So they are. Colonialism,
gender, and romance are three main themes underpinned
by betrayal, neglect, and, in the end, abandonment. Reading
through the book, one feels the heavy weight of History
weighing down on the delicate life of a young girl, who had to
mature early in life only to feel unwanted and uncared for. In
the end, Isabel gave up. But not without giving her last act of
courage, ending life in her own hands. That way, she could stop
the pain, end the demons that haunted her life. Her mixed race
had something to do with her nomadic life, belonging neither
to the country where she was born nor the country where she
wanted to belong. She took a stand to face the only remaining
place left for her—eternity.
The book offers insights into the workings of empire,
penetrating the life of an aspiring actress. Shifting between
archive and fiction, colony and empire, ambition and reality—
the author successfully sutures into her heroine’s narrative the
trappings of colonialism. The theme of the female body, so
dear to the representation of imperialist power, is once more
re-inscribed in the story of a damsel swept off her feet by the
larger-than-life figure of a bemedaled army general promising
his love. In this “shifting of intimate relations” between a
colonial woman and a conquering hero, we are able to see
how “the project of American empire in the Philippines”
is imbricated into the biographical narrative.4 A double
tryst happens when the bodies of power find their ultimate
expression in two warm bodies snared in one romantic sweep.
History and reality are seldom caught in such a hard embrace.
If the book may be seen to be remiss about something,
it is in its failure to make mention, even only in passing, that
Isabel Cooper was not the lone person coming from the
Islands who went to Hollywood for a chance to be a star. So
laser-focused is the author on Isabel that she left no room
for stories of other Filipinos who, like the vaudeville star, also
sought their fortune in this “boulevard of broken dreams,”
as a line from one popular song goes. This failure gives the
impression that the author wants to imbue her heroine with
a tragic stature, giving her solitary life a touch of theatricality,
when her story finds common resonance in a few more stories
by her compatriots. Hollywood was littered with Filipinos—
men, women, kids—who vied for attention in this cut-throat
market for talents, even before Isabel descended on the famed
entertainment capital. “Destination Hollywood” was the
unspoken mantra for those who hitched their stars to the
glittering promise of stardom. Just like hers, their stories got
drowned, too, in the past.
Among those who tried their luck in Hollywood was
Angel Torena, the Philippine-born but of Spanish descent
Hispanic-Filipino, who was the first to break into the business
in the early Thirties. No less than the famous Hollywood power
couple Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford spotted his
good looks while he was selling them reproductions of classic
paintings. That started his way to appearing in movies, mainly
in the Fox studio lot, where Isabel would one day try her luck.
The furthest his career went was to appear in supporting roles
in the Spanish-language versions of some studio movies, like
La Cruz y la Espada (1934), shown south of the Mexican
border. Making it big in Hollywood, Torena died in his upscale
Montecito residence in Santa Barbara, California, at the ripe
age of 83.
There were also the Abcede kids who made a name
for themselves as the only Filipino members of the Hollywood
Baby Orchestra who could sing and dance. They even
entertained the famous couple Fairbanks and Pickford (again!)
in their Beverly Hills home. But the one who made it bigger
than the rest was Rudy Robles. A Cebuano who followed his
stateside dream, he appeared in the Gary Cooper-starrer The
Real Glory in 1939 when America came out of the Depression
and World War II broke out in Europe. At this time, Isabel was
married to an attorney, settling into a life of domesticity, still a
few years away from venturing where Robles had struck gold
with the movies he appeared in. He went on to grace fifty other
movies and television shows in Hollywood. But those who
made it big in Tinseltown were kids—and men.
Hollywood was kinder to men. It was men who
landed plum roles that Isabel could only covet. She was
similarly lured by ambition, but luck was harsher on women.
This must have made Gonzales stick to her character, as
bringing up the Filipino men who made it big in the place
where Isabel failed would only make her story harder to bear.
However, seeing Isabel’s fate in Hollywood compared to his
male compatriots would have given the book a more contextual
view. It would have provided another prism to see Isabel’s
struggle in Hollywood. To see that she was not alone. Not
even among the other Filipinas like her who ventured into the
celebrated town. Famous among them was the Thirties movie
queen Rosa del Rosario, the first Darna in Filipino movies.
Migrating to the USA, she took the chance to audition in
Hollywood movies, but she only went so far as to appear in
a few bit roles like Border Bandits (1946) and an uncredited
77
 REACTION SHOT

appearance in American Guerilla in the Philippines (1950).

She was followed by a few more, like Gilda Gales, the Greta
Garbo of Filipino movies, but, just like Isabel’s, their ambitions
were all dashed to disappointment. If it were any consolation
to these other actresses, none of their stories was as tragic as
Isabel’s. None ended in suicide.
I sympathize with the author in her search for a
narrative from the thousand pieces of information she found,
with only a few making the cut for the story she wanted to
tell. In our search for a past—I with the history of cinema and
Gonzales with the story of Isabel—the notion of haunting
becomes inevitable. Similar forces haunt both cinema and the
actress. Big forces. Both are progenies of the same colonial
experience. Offsprings of imperialist desire. Something about
their past keeps reminding us of a disturbed and disquieted
Nick Deocampo is a documentary filmmaker and film
historian. The latest volume in his series of historiographies
is Alternative Cinema: The Unchronicled History of Alternative
Cinema in the Philippines (University of the Philippines Press
and Film Development Council of the Philippines, 2022).
Endnotes
1 Vernadette Vicuña Gonzales, Empire’s Mistress starring Isabel Rosario
Cooper (Durham: Duke Univerity Press, 2021), 9.
2 Ibid, 11.
3 Ibid, 6.
4 Ibid, 5.
5 Ibid, 159.

beginning. The haunting is, however, more felt and more

pronounced when told in the desperate story of Isabel Cooper.
For hers was a felt experience. She lived it. We empathize with
her suffering. We understand her loss. But the haunting we
see in her is no less different from what we see in the history
of cinema, only grander in scope. What is personally felt
becomes institutional and systemic when seen in the cultural
infrastructure, such as the Filipino movie industry. There is a
line that intersects in both their stories. It cuts deep.

As nothing escapes the burdens laid down by colonial

influence, both cinema and the individual suffer from the
malady of colonial excess. Isabel suffered throughout her life
from the misgivings of a colonial relationship. Similarly, what
is overlaid in this human drama is a familiar haunting that
plagues Philippine cinema. In it, American cultural influences
until now haunt contemporary Filipino cinematic culture.

Gonzales sees the haunting of Isabel through

her myriad appearances and reappearances in the many
incarnations of the actress and the mistress in media. Cinema’s
haunting plagues Filipino culture with its ravaging copycat
entertainment over decades of growth. The conundrum a
once colonized people faces is this: when will this haunting
end? What will it take for the haunting to stop? If we must
take heed of the author’s wisdom, she writes at the end of her
remarkable “biography” about a mistress and actress, “Perhaps
the point is that we need not exorcise ghosts but could come to
terms instead with their hauntings and the provocations.”5 As
Isabel continues to find an afterlife in the stories told about her,
Filipinos go on living with a culture that remains haunted by a
colonial past that has Isabel Rosario Cooper, one of its favored
icons, continuing to haunt the present.

78 79
 ARCHIVE

Elena Jurado and Robert Armstrong embracing in A Girl in Every Port

I
n 1919, a young Filipina from Sibonga, Cebu,
who went to America to study Radio, auditioned
and landed a role in a major silent film made
in San Francisco. By the 1920s, the San Francisco Chronicle,
the Los Angeles Times, and newspapers all over the US hailed
Elena Jurado as “the only Filipino who has risen to the ranks of
principal in American Cinema” after her appearance in White
Hands (1922) where she played the role of an Arabian girl who
served and danced in a cafe. She was nicknamed “The Swede”
among the cast and crew after Hobart Bosworth, dubbed the
Dean of Hollywood, learned her name was Elena.

Years later, she appeared in two other silent films

about American sailors fighting over women abroad in What
Price Glory (1926) and A Girl in Every Port (1928), where she
played minor roles before completely disappearing from the
industry.

On 27 November 2019, ARCHIVO1984 Gallery

hosted an exhibit and a lecture by multi-awarded writer
Wilfredo Pascual called “Finding Elena.” Pascual showcased
his collection of photographs and news clippings of “the First
Filipino Movie Star in Hollywood,” following her curious
rise to fame and her final performances as an actress. The
writer’s talk presented his extensive research on Elena and how,
through his passionate search for her, his life as a gay Filipino
American became deeply entwined with hers.

Images in this section are from the collection of

Wilfredo Pascual, except where noted, and courtesy of
ARCHIVO1984.

Victor McLaglen and Robert Armstrong with Girl # 1 in Panama, Elena Jurado, in Howard Hawks’s A Girl in Every Port (1928)

80 81
Victor McLaglen with Girl #1 in Panama, Elena Jurado, in A Girl in Every Port

82 83
 ARCHIVE

Fawning over Prince Nicki, played by Erich von Stroheim

Newspaper writeup published in San Francisco Chronicle, 26 June 1923,

Victor McLaglen and Robert Armstrong feuding over Girl # 1 in Panama, Elena plays the role of an Arabian girl who serves and dances in a cafe in
which gives details on the suit filed by Elena Jurado against the Motion
Elena Jurado, in Howard Hawks’s A Girl in Every Port (1928) White Hands (1922)
Picture Utility Corporation. The suit was later dismissed

84 85
 ARCHIVE ARCHIVE

Newspaper clipping with the headline, "Island Cinderella finds ‘Fairy Godfather’ in Real Life
Who Unlocks Door to Movie Fame"

News clipping from the New York Daily News written by

Irene Thirer, the paper's film critic, featuring Elena Jurado
and Victor McLaglen, for her writeup

Newspaper clipping highlighting Elena Jurado
with the headline, "Island Cinderella finds ‘Fairy
Godfather’ in Real Life Who Unlocks Door to
Movie Fame"
86
News clipping captioned, "Elena Jurado and her
company sail for Manila on the Tenyo Maru.”
She was an "extra girl" when Hobart Bosworth
(with her in the lower photo) discovered her and
launched her to stardom
News clipping captioned, "Miss Elena Jurado who
has her own company and will ‘shoot’ pictures with
her native land as her background. A special part in
an emergency ‘made’ her. She is a college graduate.”
Elena Jurado with Hobart Bosworth, a photograph with a note from Elena, "To Mr. Bosworth~Sincere appreciation and
many kindness to me during White Hands.” Lena Jacobs, Alias, "Swede," 1921
87
 SHORT TAKE

Filipina DH (1995) by Imelda Cajipe Endaya. Installation shot at the NCCA Gallery. Photo by Manit Sriwanichpoom.
All images are used with permission

To create the installation, I have recycled old curtains and bed covers (objects of my own sewing and mending) and
arranged them with other household implements. Mostly rags petrified into black, roughly textured domestic artifacts,
I interspersed them with mementos of familial and religious devotion. A craggy sack-cloth pillow on tiles laid out as a
cold bed, an iron board adorned with Mater Dolorosa’s ray, a flat-iron hanging over worn-out slippers, an empty dish on
a microwave oven, a hand reaching out, prickly mittens clipped with sentimental cassette tapes, a native mat, a fatigue
suitcase, a faded flag, an arm cleaning a high rise window, a grass broom, a vacuum cleaner, images of the Virgin Mary,
maid’s uniforms, a rope, a chain, a knife.

—Imelda Cajipe Endaya, Filipina DH (1995)

I
n the passage above, the artist Imelda Cajipe
Endaya narrates images in a montage that jumps
across time and space detailing a sequence of
escalating horrors. In her text, grisly domestic tools forbode
the violence of the last objects in her list: a rope, a chain, a
knife. The list is from the artist’s notes on the components
of her installation, Filipina DH (1995), a work that looks at
the conditions and experiences of Filipina domestic workers
in the mid-1990s. The image above was taken from the 1995
installation of the work at the National Commission for
Culture and the Arts (NCCA) Gallery in Intramuros, where it
was shown as part of an exhibition with Egay Fernandez and
Jose Tence Ruiz entitled Focus: OCWs—OCW for overseas
contract workers.
Not shown in the photograph are two more
arrangements by Cajipe Endaya: a black coffin (or an “isolation
88
box”) which hung from a noose-like chain allowing the
box to hover several feet off the floor, and a slideshow of
images projected on a layered patchwork of light-colored
maids uniforms which served as a screen. The slideshow
includes images of Mater Dolorosa and the child Jesus; a
brown, colonial-era caregiver; newsprint images of Flor
Contemplacion and her children; Sarah Balabagan, whose
trial followed the execution of Flor Contemplacion; and other
photos of Filipina domestic workers from headlines of the
time.
Lastly, the installation included music. Pieces by
composers Jonas Baes and Dodjie Fernandez accompanied
dance artist Myra Beltran’s Birdwoman, performed when the
exhibition opened. Beltran’s performance for Filipina DH is an
excerpt from a much longer piece.
89
 SHORT TAKE
Filipina DH (1995) by Imelda Cajipe Endaya. Installation shot at the CCP Production Center. Photo by Jun Sambajon
Today only one of Filipina DH’s components—the
“Blouse of Dignity,” an assemblage of objects and plaster
bonded or stiffened textile remains intact in its complete,
material form. For the rest of the objects, Cajipe Endaya
says, “I’ve accepted them to be discardable,” that is, like most
installation work, impermanent.
Immediate and responsive to the then escalating
brutalities of women “in extremis,” the work has circulated
in several variations locally and overseas. Following the
NCCA exhibition, it became part of the traveling exhibition
Contemporary Art in Asia: Traditions/Tensions, curated by
Apinan Poshyananda and organized by Asia Society New York
in 1996, from where it was then shown in several other cities,
including Vancouver, Bombay, and Perth.
In this brief essay, I attempt to look again at some
images and ephemera of and about Filipina DH. I propose a
sustained look with a filmic eye structured by the incomplete
documentary and evidentiary work that survives it. Filmic not
because it is inherently or conceptually related to cinematic
form or even what has now been called artists’ moving
image—but because this almost-thirty-year-old installation
piece can, I believe, be framed within an understanding of
film and its formal qualities given its existence today as both
documentation and fragment of the original. I revisit the work,
not as film—it was never conceived as such and is evidently
another kind of making—but through it.
Entering the work as someone accessing it from its
future, an understanding of filmic and protofilmic techniques
90
and devices allows me to build a bridge of reading or looking
between installation art and film through not always readily
obvious or available means such as “new media” practice (with
which Cajipe Endaya is not immediately associated) or even
the mediascape, more broadly. This approach considers what it
means for installation to live on as a document and fragment,
given the specificities of the artist’s process and the limits of
material, archival resources.
Moreover, this initial outing departs from isolated
art historical readings of installation art (alongside well-
established critiques of social realism) or more constrained and
self-referential understandings of film and the moving image
and explores an expressible space between and across these two
practices with the work at its axis.
It is a way of making sense of the ephemeral “discards”
of works of art, given the limited capacities of material-based
record keeping in our corner of the planet but also given the
artist’s disinterest in the total possession of permanent objects
(Cajipe Endaya has repeatedly referred to most of the objects
in her installation work as “discards” saving but one assemblage,
the aforementioned “Blouse of Dignity,” and the black textile
backdrop with her handwriting—these among over twenty
other discrete components) and in a sense implying that such
works are pliant and reject fixed proprietary reconstructions.
I reflect on Filipina DH following the apparatuses
of cinema: photography as a mediator to the artwork and
both its older and more recent technological potentialities;
mise-en-scene as the deliberate composition and arrangement
SHORT TAKE
of elements within a frame to further a narrative which, in
installation art, takes an ephemeral and more tactile quality;
and the slideshow as pre-cinema technology and pedagogical
tool in art history.
Xyza Cruz Bacani. Installation shot from the exhibition We are Like Air at the
Open Source Gallery, New York (2018)
Photography
The complexity of artwork documentation,
particularly of works that are time-based and/or site-specific
such as video art, installation art, and performance, has been
described by Amelia Jones as having a unique relationship
with those who interact with documentary traces of the
work.1 While such ruminations insist on the singularity of
experiencing documentary evidence of live works of art,
film language relies on photography (or perhaps, its filmic
counterpart, cinematography) in order to insist on a film’s
“reality.” Hence, continuity is a virtue—unless explicitly broken
as a rule—and day for night or night for day treatments of light
are considered basic cinematographic techniques. Light is the
storyteller, and simulation is paramount. Unlike the argument
for photographic documentation existing on the same plane as
the live experience of time-based and site-specific work, film
photography argues for its own kind of experience, which it
labors to keep intact throughout the film.
In Filipina DH, there are two primary kinds of
photographs in question.2 The first kind is the images that
“simulate” the experience of seeing the work firsthand and in
the flesh back in 1995, that is, its documentation. The second
kind is the images in the slideshow, which are projected
continuously on layered maids’ uniforms, simulating a kind
of courtroom presentation of evidentiary material: Exhibit
A, Exhibit B. For those like me, who only witnessed the
sensationalized lives of Contemplacion and Balabagan on
TV as a child, these grainy, visual documents recall the age
of brownouts and corporal metaphors of migration—katas
ng Saudi—but also now, as a mother myself, the heft of such
horrors. I pause and remember Susan Sontag: “Eventually, one
reads into the photograph what it should be saying.”3
By looking closely at the first kind of photographs, the
images serve as an important resource of the work, becoming
itinerant and discursive artifacts of the installation. These
images become, in the words of Monica E. McTighe, the
work’s “mediator(s) of history and experience,”4 carrying with
them flattened, circulating representations of fully embodied
displays of objects and allowing them to decompress in the
viewer’s mind, extending and expanding once more across
various readings. They then gain status, for better or worse, as
they travel the different realms of art.
This capacity of the installation photograph or
document allows for ideas to drift. These photographs
can remain in an archive, serve as references for future
reinstallations, be mined as research material on the artist’s
oeuvre, or even be sold as prints. They are also almost always
moving, and traveling. The images of Filipina DH have been
featured in over a dozen publications and/or newspapers locally
and overseas since the ‘90s, the latest of which was by Terry
Smith, closing the chapter on Asia from his book Contemporary
Art: World Currents (2011).
The artwork’s images echo the itinerancy of the bodies
of the women whose physicality is implicated in the work.
Unlike the artwork’s documentation, however, which remains
preserved in time—stills is the word in film for the taking of
images during production—these Filipina domestic workers at
present, almost thirty years after, navigate a space where they
have now taken part in their own simulations, in conveying
their own images. Social media has afforded these workers a
different kind of mobility, allowing a number of them to host
vlogs, lend advice to those who aspire to work overseas, and
show “a day in the life” of a domestic worker in Hong Kong,
Romania, Japan, the US. Like the simulated images in Filipina
DH, these women occupy a world of fast-moving, share-driven
images, slipping in and out of the transmission, enormously felt
but barely visible—a quality not always to one’s disadvantage—,
in the words of Xyza Cruz Bacani, “like air.”5
There is, importantly, the exceptional work of
Xyza Cruz Bacani and Joan Pabona. They have turned to
photojournalism to assert latitude within and outside their
artistic practices while employed as domestic workers.
Potentialities in these more recent directions of women
engaged in overseas domestic work point toward image-
making as a conveyance of decades of fraught transactions of
bodies to maintain and sustain life, simulations of lives as scar
tissue from the past, and other recent wounds in convalescence,
remain fresh.
91
 SHORT TAKE
Mise-en-scene
Filipina DH is often described as “room-sized,”
literally occupying a room. There are over twenty objects
laid out almost as if they were composed for a live event or
performance or, possibly, the aftermath of one of these. No
singular form or object draws you in, no closed, solid, geometric
shapes or any subtle interrogations of the grid. There is no
allusion to or representations of monuments.
These are the objects as they are but wrapped in a
coarse exterior, stiff and heavily textured with a little color,
almost everything in black and white. These are not imitative
stand-ins or metaphors. According to Grace Glueck of the
New York Times, they are, unapologetically, props.6
In film language, mise-en-scene is typically
“everything happening within the frame,” and Filipina DH
is inventively composed as if it were inside one—as if it were
simply waiting for a camera. In fact, its very first installation
was primarily for photography. Cajipe Endaya made it to
propose a work to a Thailand-based curator for an exhibition.
The artist worked with the Cultural Center of the Philippines’
Production Center to put together the components in their
workshop and composed them for photographs which were
sent to the curator for review. There was no real audience for
this first iteration of the work except for friends and colleagues
who happened to be in the area and dropped by to take a look.
It was, for all intents, a photography shoot with Julio Sambajon
of the CCP. Several months later, the artist re-installed it
at the NCCA, this time for public exhibition, where it was
photographed again, this time by Manit Sriwanichpoom, who
was assigned to take images of all the works for the Traditions/
Tensions exhibition catalog.
The arrangement of the components in Filipina DH
has once been dismissively described in an overseas daily by
Eleanor Heartney as “mere accumulation,”7 with the reviewer
perhaps expecting both less (minimalist urges?) and more
(familiar tropes?). However, such stuff is also the rendering
of the clutter and ironies of everyday life. A fundamental
syncretism we live and breathe in our personal and shared
spaces. As the artist wrote in response to the said review: “it
appropriated the typical way Filipinos display altar icons side
by side with sentimental souvenirs in their homes.”8
Tellingly, Cajipe Endaya also writes about her work
as participatory. Aside from incorporating her own materials,
a call for donations produced the items in the work, including
the maids’ uniforms, luggage, and other personal objects.
Concerning their composition in space, she writes: “Believing
that the aesthetics of the studio can be built up on language
and values of ordinary people in common situations, the
ordinariness and intimacy of my objects and their arrangement
accounted for the ease by which local audiences related to my
work.”9
92
SHORT TAKE
This latter statement, aside from indicating the work’s
reception, allows us to see the entirety of the installation
not just as evocations of materials, events, and bodies but
also as the artist’s attempt at bringing forth the aesthetics
of an artist’s studio (all things beloved and inspirational in a
devotional space) and the ordinariness of objects outside of
it visible in one plane. It is a simultaneous transposition and
transformation of contexts that allows us also to figure out
how the borders between what does and does not constitute
art are ultimately invented. What we get for mise-en-scene
is a composite of both the artist’s creative life and the lives of
other women. Perhaps it is also a way for the artist to bridge
and think through realities to which she has limited means of
access, but means of access she pursues, nonetheless.
Lastly, the reference to props is not entirely a
misnomer. During its two opening days in Manila, Myra
Beltran performed an excerpt from her piece Birdwoman
within the installation. She would perform the piece again a
year later in Casa San Miguel in San Antonio, Zambales, this
time within the longer Birdwoman piece. For the Birdwoman-
Filipina DH excerpt, Beltran brought several components from
the installation, including the black canvas with handwritten
text (text lifted from an ad for Filipina domestic workers) and
three pieces of luggage which two other dancers used with
Tutol ni Dolorosa (1992). Image courtesy of Imelda Cajipe Endaya and the CCP VAMD.
Beltran as props for one segment. Photo by Erik Liongoren
Birdwoman is a dance that interprets a Japanese
folktale about a Crane-woman who uses her feathers to weave
cloth for trade, offered to the man who saved her from a
I worked with Aica Basa to put together what we descriptive texts, corroborate a work that is poignant, variable,
hunter’s arrow. In Beltran’s performance, documented by video,
hoped would be a complete overview of the work, aiming to unfamiliar (or too familiar), sentimental, discomfiting, tactile,
objects from the installation are recycled once more as objects
to convey the metaphor of “this sacrifice by the bird woman.”10 provide viewers like ourselves who could not experience the literal, intertextual, and ornamental.
In Beltran’s piece, the Filipina worker moves from someone work firsthand with a panorama of the room. We were given
I am currently layering my understanding of the
bound to home to what May Adadol Ingawanij may describe most materials: generally well-kept, scanned, and labeled slide
images based on extant discards of the work or what has been
as a “creaturely becoming”11 of a woman who finally takes flight films.
left for the archive. There is no existing video documentation,
after weaving her body into cloth.
Gradually, as we edited the slideshow, it seemed some so I rely solely on the photographs for spatial orientation.
images were meant to have more screen time than the rest. For Piecing together materials from various sources, I also think a
example, there were hardly any images of the boombox and the lot about what the artist seemed to dwell on—Mater Dolora’s
Slideshow microwave with the plaster-cast hand, but several close-ups ray, which echoes an image of the actual Mater Dolorosa statue
from different angles of the ironing board with Mater Dolora’s in one of the images shown through the slide projector. The
As I write this, I am working on a slideshow of
ray or rostrillo. There are several isolated detail shots of the rope, sorrowful mother and her imposing rostrillo belong to Cajipe
Filipina DH for Imelda Cajipe Endaya’s retrospective at the
the chain, and the knife but almost none of the snaking, space- Endaya’s iconography of images which the artist almost always
Cultural Center of the Philippines. The slideshow consists of
defining black luggage on the floor that we hoped to include. places compositionally in contradicting or ambivalent contexts.
images from her archive, including her own photographs aside
During the NCCA opening, the bags included inscriptions on One of her earlier paintings, Tutol ni Dolorosa (1992), shows
from Sambajon’s and Sriwanichpoom’s. The unevenness of the
their luggage tags addressed to migrant workers from visitors the Virgin Mother utterly displeased (i.e., masungit), arms
material guides us. More time and care are evidently given to
of the exhibition, including, according to Cajipe Endaya “the crossed in annoyance just beneath her golden glowing heart
some of the components than the rest of the objects in terms
First lady, the Senate President, head of the overseas labor with seven sorrowful blades pierced through it.
of building an archive of images. I imagine a more “balanced”
commission, social workers, returnees, and migrant workers’
sense of the photo documentation must have been submitted Thinking through the images of the slide projector
families, school teachers and students….”12
to the curator when this work was in its proposal stage. What and the slideshow that this ephemeral installation work will
the artist’s archive at the moment reflected, however, was a While we might have missed such performative now take the form of, I cannot help but think about the
tendency toward certain materials and moods. What might details that hint at the reception of the work outside art slideshow itself as a format that exists in collocation with art
this tell us about the artist’s intentions for the afterlives of this reviews, Cajipe Endaya’s account and those of others who history. As many have commented before, the slideshow or the
work? witnessed the installation firsthand, along with other slide lecture is art history itself. There would be no teaching,
93
 SHORT TAKE SHORT TAKE

knowing, and concluding of ideas about art without it—how
else to speak of a completely alien painting from sixteenth-
century Spain, for example, which we have never seen, smelled,
or aurally engaged with and yet must attempt to appreciate
in order to dramatize and narrate our understandings of, but
through a reproduction?
And while I struggle with this task of representation, I think
a lot about Claire Denis, who said it most acutely about films
that exist in a world that will always be cruel despite society’s
or the maker’s aspirations of regeneration: “Films are not
repairing…films are offering the best they can…not to hurt,
but to be with….”13

In early cinema, a precursor of the slideshow was the

magic lantern—an early image projector with a focusing lens
popularized in European cities in the seventeen and eighteenth
centuries until the arrival of film or the moving picture almost
a hundred years later. With hand-painted plates or slides,
the projectors magnified images for phantasmagoria and Lara Acuin is a writer, teacher, and cultural worker. She
“necromancy performances,” often to render ghosts and other recently worked on the retrospective exhibition of Imelda
spectral beings more phantom-like for spooking out audiences Cajipe Endaya at the Cultural Center of the Philippines.
inside a theater—an early house of horrors.

I recall these as I look at the Filipina DH slideshow

and its slideshow—thinking about the ghosts of an artwork.
The suffering is still there, but now speaking from a different
time and place. There is no longer the spectacle of diplomatic
and state failures and cruel and painful martyrdoms. These
traces of a particular moment, the intricacies of which are now
open not to reconstruction, but reimagination and retelling, led
us to make the slideshow in the first place. Not to lecture or
pretend that the images shown are the work as it is or was. It is
to tell another story, another kind of moment. One that, with
much hope, continues and allows for the work’s ideas to inspire
other trajectories and traverse difficult thoughts, perhaps
enough to harness energy for the subsequent retelling for the
next moment—not as balm or medicine, but as a companion.

Endnotes

1 Amelia Jones, “Presence in absentia: Experiencing Performance as Documentation,” Art Journal 56, no. 4 (1997): 12.
2 It is worth noting that on some occasions there are actual physical photographs included in the display particularly those on the floor, laid out with garlic,
mailing envelopes, and a novena. These small (around 4R) photos were snapshots of people outdoors and the Virgin Mary.
3 Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others (New York: Picador Press), 25.
4 Monica E. McTighe, Framed Spaces: Photography and Memory in Contemporary Installation Art (New Hampshire: Dartmouth College Press, 2011), 19.
5 Xyza Cruz Bacani, We are Like Air (Hong Kong: WE Press Co. Ltd., 2018), n.p.
6 Grace Glueck, “In Asia a War of Past and Present,” New York Times, October 18, 1996, 29, accessed on October 15, 2022, nytimes.com/1996/10/18/arts/in-
asia-a-war-of-past-and-present.html.
7 Eleanor Heartney, “Asia Now,” Art in America, February 1997, 70-75.
8 Imelda Cajipe Endaya, “Issues and Problems in Women’s Art Practice for Social Transformation,” Unpublished lecture for Crossing Cultures: Theories and
Practices on Engaged Art Symposium, MOST Hong Kong, October 2000.
9 Ibid.
10 Myra Beltran, e-mail message with the author, July 19, 2022.
11 May Adadol Ingawanij, “Making Line and Medium”, Southeast of Now: Directions in Contemporary and Modern Art in Asia 3 no.1 (2020): 20. I am inspired
by Ingawanij’s description of Araya Rasdjarmrearnsook’s later style, that of “creaturely entwining and becoming.” Birdwoman as a performance by Beltran—
through a conversation with the work of Cajipe Endaya—turns this idea of “creatureliness” and desire toward asserting selfhood amid self-sacrifice.
12 Ibid.
13 “Claire Denis and Jim Jarmusch In Conversation | Rendez-Vous with French Cinema 2022,” Film at Lincoln Center, YouTube Video, 26:17- 26:30, July 8,
2022, accessed on October 15, 2022, youtube.com/watch?v=n1zW7XJ3gqg.

94 95
 LONG TAKE
A
ccording to the Philippine Statistics
Authority,1 1.77 million Filipino nationals
worked overseas as Overseas Foreign
Workers (OFW) as of 2020. Of that number, 1.71 million
worked as Overseas Contract Workers (OCW), i.e., an OFW
with an active working contract. Today, according to Maruja
Asis2, more than ten million Filipinos or people with Filipino
heritage are either working or living abroad.
The current spate of foreign migrant workers, and in
turn, the films that depict these workers, stem from the latest
multiple migrations from the Philippines that have existed
since the dawn of transnational trade and the opening of
Philippine borders to the global community. This latest global
labor migration, starting in the late 1960s and the early 1970s,
consisted initially of male labor workers to the Middle East,
then mostly female migrants to East Asia, following rapid
economic growth in those countries. Filomeno V. Aguilar states
that this latest phase of migration stems from the Labor Code
of 1974, instituted by the Marcos dictatorship, which codified
labor export and human resources as state policy3—a policy
that has persisted through subsequent administrations up to
the present day.
It is then worth looking at examples of films that take
place during this latest wave of migrations. Luckily, there is no
dearth of examples, and there is an abundance of films about
the topic. In terms of widely seen mainstream films from the
last few decades, Cherish Aileen A. Brillon notes Milan (2004)
and Dubai (2005) as some of the first films from Star Cinema,
arguably the largest filmmaking outfit in the country at the
time, that dealt with Filipino migrant workers.4
However, tracing the lineage of these contemporary
OFW films does not start nor end with those two films.
Arguably, one could draw the line further back in time to
include Olivia Lamasan’s Sana Maulit Muli (1995), a romantic
movie about a woman who goes to work abroad, initially
against her will, at the urging of her boyfriend, or very early
examples such as Gil Portes’s Miss X (1980), about a Filipina,
illegally recruited to work in Amsterdam. Filipino communities
that have taken permanent residence abroad have also received
cinematic treatment over the past few decades, such as Laurice
Guillen’s American Adobo (2001) or Lav Diaz’s Batang West Side
(2001). The United States and Asian nations such as Hong
Kong, Singapore, and Japan are common locations for these
films, although other locations in Europe or the Middle East
are also seen.
One may note that most of the films described above
are made from the point of view of those working or living
abroad, filmed and written by people living in the Philippines.
They have their own associated tropes and storylines, which
will be discussed later in this essay. Over the past few decades,
subsequent films have emerged, offering different perspectives
on the Filipino migrant worker paradigm.
96
In this sequence from Dubai, there is a juxtaposition of unfamiliar spaces with
familiar elements—a technique that will persist until the present day (Dubai,
Star Cinema, 2005). All images are author's screenshots of the films
Previous page: The visual juxtaposition seen in films like Dubai persists here in
Hello, Love, Goodbye, often placing its protagonists backgrounded by picturesque,
often exotic locales
Firstly, films made by the Filipino diaspora and their
reconciliation with their conception of cultural identity and
home as been discussed in films such as The Fabulous Filipino
Brothers (2021), Martin Edralin’s Islands (2021), or Dianne
Paragas’s Yellow Rose (2019.) In particular, the creation of a
unique transnational identity and space features prominently
in the films of Matthew Victor Pastor, such as his 2018 film
Melodrama/Random/Melbourne! where the film’s myriad of
characters try to reconcile their existence in Australian society
with their Filipino heritage.
Secondly, depictions of Filipino workers and migrants
in the cinema of other countries are an area of study worth
looking into.5 Notably, in the 2000s and 2010s Asian cinema,
many Filipino roles during this time reflected the widespread
stereotype of the female Filipino domestic worker, as seen
in films like The Maid (2005) or Mercedes Cabral’s small
role in Park Chan-wook’s Thirst (2008).6 Some films closely
interrogate the transactional, often temporary nature of the
relationship between these workers and their employers and
the potential of forming emotional bonds with them, seen in
films like Ilo Ilo (2013) or Still Human (2018), and partially in
documentaries such as Baby Ruth Villarama’s Sunday Beauty
Queen (2016). Films such as Isabel Sandoval’s Lingua Franca
(2019) and Frederikke Aspöck’s Rosita (2015) feature foreign
nationals who try, and eventually fail, to form relationships
with these migrants and workers, partially due to political and
gender discrimination in the former, and financial concerns
in both. Depictions of the Filipino diaspora were not very
common in Western media until recently, with the push for
greater representation among Asian (and particularly Southeast
Asian) cultures.
Much more rarely, films are made by overseas
workers in their country of residence, which reflects their
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A screencap from Chino Pereira’s Lamentasyon (2021). Taken from the official trailer
struggles living in a foreign land, away from loved ones and
conventional support systems. One recent example is Chino
Pereira’s Lamentasyon (2021), exclusively filmed by and starring
OFWs working in Dubai. Billed as a psychological thriller,
Lamentasyon is actually an advocacy film about the mental
health of Filipinos working abroad. In the film, an OFW
slowly loses his sanity because of increasingly dire life events,
ultimately affecting his capacity to work abroad and provide
for his family. His mental breakdowns manifest as horrific
hallucinations that intensify his downward spiral, aggravated
by his lack of emotional support and limited access to mental
health care.
What constitutes an “OFW film” or a “diaspora
film” varies wildly depending on who creates the film and the
intended audience. It can be argued that certain films about
migrant workers, such as those released by large companies like
Star Cinema, aim to reach audiences both at home and abroad,
where the migrant worker is both the subject matter and the
consumer. Films created by people still in the Philippines serve
as a reminder of the sacrifices made by these workers to provide
for their families; films made by actual workers and members
of the diaspora lean towards illustrating their struggles with
identity and conformity in an alien society.
This also begs the question: Which examples
above are still considered “Filipino Cinema”? In Rolando B.
Tolentino’s essay titled Geopolitical Space and the Chinese ‘City’
Films, the idea of a “national cinema” becomes much more fluid
in the context of a rapidly globalized society and the formation
of cultural connections between the Philippines and the arts,
culture, and media of other countries and societies.7 With
the rise of international co-productions featuring Filipino
characters (and subsequently, Filipino stories) that are not
explicitly “homegrown” (that is, not primarily produced in the
Philippines,) this fluidity is made expressly evident and is, at
this very moment, re-constructing the very idea of “nation.”
It should also be noted that the emergence and
popularity of streaming services almost exclusively airing
Filipino content, such as iWantTFC and Vivamax, as well as
the increasing number of Filipino films on global streaming
services such as Netflix, has made Filipino films accessible to
both migrant workers and members of the diaspora and vice
versa, potentially changing the way audiences engage with and
encounter these kinds of media. It follows that the very nature
of audienceship is rapidly changing due to the emergence of
easily accessible streaming media sources, whether legal or not.
As a result, it is starting to form its own distinct transnational
identity, amalgamating many cultures into something unique
and creating art and media to try to express this de novo
cultural understanding that is uniquely its own.
This essay will look at and textually compare three
contemporary films about migrants or migrant workers and
how they utilize elements of storytelling and filmmaking to
depict this divide between home and working in a foreign land.
All three films were produced by Philippine-based filmmakers,
at times with partial participation from members of diasporic
communities.
The three selected films were released in the past five
years, easily accessible through streaming or other platforms.
The first, Cathy Garcia-Molina’s Hello, Love, Goodbye (2019)
film, incorporates many of the storytelling tropes of the OFW
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film that have been developed over the past few decades and
thus will serve as a benchmark or prototypical example to
compare the other two films. In contrast, the second film,
Veronica Velasco’s Nuuk (2019), is selected as a counterexample,
as it subverts the usual storytelling expectations seen in films
embodied by Hello, Love, Goodbye. And finally, in Velasco’s
A Faraway Land (2021), the idea of “home” is challenged
as characters navigate and try to acclimate to foreign lands,
leading to a question of forming identities within these alien
spaces.
Hello, Love, Goodbye: A Prototypical Example
Released by Star Cinema in 2019, Garcia-Molina’s
Hello, Love, Goodbye is, to date, the highest-grossing Filipino
film of all time. It follows Joy (Kathryn Bernardo) as she
works as a domestic helper in Hong Kong. Even though, as a
registered nurse, she is overly qualified for the job, it is much
better than work opportunities in the Philippines. However,
even her pay is not enough to sustain her own financial needs,
so she works extra jobs on the side (which is illegal in Hong
Kong). The opening sequence is accompanied by Joy talking
about the notion of mobility—in that she must keep moving,
working, and hustling to survive. This mobility manifests in
her personal goal—to move out of Hong Kong and work
in Canada, where her talents and qualifications will be fully
utilized and where she can eventually bring along the rest of
her family.
As the opening sequences also show, her plight is
shared with many other overseas workers trying to make a
living in Hong Kong. At the beginning of the film, she fetches
her cousin Mary Dale (Maymay Entrata), a newly minted
foreign worker—showing that such workers and breadwinners
exist across family lines and among small communities, who
often recruit each other for jobs abroad.
Joy’s goal is to move on from the Philippines entirely
and settle somewhere else. In some forms of media depicting
overseas workers (and indeed, with fellow overseas workers in
Hello, Love, Goodbye), there is a longing to return home and be
reunited with loved ones. For Joy, that notion is not even on the
table. There is an implied failure of the Philippines to provide
for its citizens, thus pushing them away from the country to
find better opportunities elsewhere. If Joy had a choice, she
would not work in these conditions, but circumstances and
filial responsibilities leave her with no other option.
Therefore, the fate of her romance with fellow
OFW Ethan (Alden Richards) feels like a done conclusion—
between family and self, she will always choose family, at times
begrudgingly so. In its own twisted way, this is also why she
harbors resentment towards her mother (Maricel Laxa), who
married a Hong Kong national to secure a green card. It is an
98
A screenshot from Hello, Love, Goodbye (Star Cinema, 2019)
abandonment of family, but it is ultimately done to serve the
family differently. Joy’s mother’s solution also excludes Joy’s
father from the picture, which Joy rejects.
Like many other films of its kind before it, released by
Star Cinema or otherwise, Hello, Love, Goodbye presents Hong
Kong as a colorful, almost exotic milieu. To potential audiences
working in the city, it helps serve as familiar markers that help
connect their favorite local actors to their current environment.
To audiences back home, movies like this serve as glimpses into
locations that most viewers can only dream of, a fantasy or a
method of escape into previously unreachable locales, while still
being relatable with some familiar elements (actors, language,
etc.).
There is also a sense of community among the
domestic helpers in Hong Kong, acting as a support system for
peers. It is not a perfect support system, as it does not prevent
Mary Dale from leaving her employer. Still, these types of
communities help otherwise isolated workers set aside time to
destress, share their problems and help out in various ways—in
a way serving as a small fragment of the home they left behind
and as a safe space to detoxify from the concerns of day to day
life.
Ultimately, despite being a romance movie, Hello,
Love, Goodbye shows that love comes secondary to the
economic pressures of working in a capitalist society, especially
those societies that are unable to fully provide their citizens
with fair, well-compensated opportunities for labor. Joy’s
father sets aside his love for his wife and tacitly approves of
her marriage to someone else for the sake of their family.
Joy’s mother does not love her new husband, who is implied
to abuse her physically but stays with him in the hopes of
helping her family back home. Joy herself rejects the possibility
of continuing her life with Ethan in Hong Kong to be able
to support her family somewhere else. There is a strong
undercurrent of sacrifice in this film’s character arcs, best
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summarized near the end of the film, where our protagonist
and her fellow domestic helpers watch a scene from Rory
Quintos’s influential OFW film Anak (2000), in which Vilma
Santos’s character delivers a monologue about the personal
sacrifices she made for the children she left behind.
Nuuk: Subverting Paradigms
Released in the same year as Hello, Love, Goodbye,
Veronica Velasco’s Nuuk is a coproduction by MAVX films
and Viva Films. Starring Aga Muhlach and Alice Dixson, the
titular Nuuk is a relatively isolated town in Greenland where
Mark’s initial appearance in the film, when viewed not as a romance but as a
most of the proceedings take place. Elaisa (Dixson), a lonely thriller, can be seen as an intrusion of space, the knife in his hand a visual clue
to his true motives
immigrant to Nuuk, struggles with the loss of her husband.
She meets and subsequently forms a relationship with Mark
(Muhlach). However, Mark has sinister plans, involving
revenge on someone close to Elaisa.
Nuuk is a film that focuses on immigrants rather than
overseas workers per se. But instead of following the same
storytelling beats as other contemporary films about migrants
and migrant workers, it subverts them.
Instead of presenting a foreign, exotic milieu as a
destination or a playground for escapist romance, Nuuk is a
As contrast to the visual juxtaposition seen and described earlier, Nuuk uses
cold and desolate place, hardly a wintry paradise and more that same visual technique to create a desolate, isolated atmosphere
an empty wasteland. Velasco and cinematographer Noel
Teehankee frame Elaisa as a speck among expansive vistas,
accentuating her loneliness and isolation from peers. The sense
of community seen in films like Hello, Love, Goodbye is all but
absent, leaving the vulnerable Elaisa to be manipulated by
Mark’s sinister schemes.
Initially presenting itself as a romance, Nuuk subverts A Faraway Land: Strange Dichotomies
this idea of safety within communities of immigrants. Many
contemporary films depicting OFW or migrant communities Also produced by MAVX films and directed by
imply a safe harbor among fellow compatriots, where there Velasco is 2021’s A Faraway Land. It tells the story of Mahjoy
should be trust. Usually, outside forces (whether bad employers, (Yen Santos), a Filipino worker who has lived in the Faroe
discrimination, or something else) create conflict, but here the Islands for six years. She is happily married to Sigmund
conflict lies within, as Mark has malicious ulterior motives (Hans Tórgarð), with whom she has one child. While being
towards Elaisa. She falls into this trap, placing her trust in interviewed for a documentary about Filipino nationals
Mark because that is, culturally, what we have been conditioned working in the Faroe Islands, she meets Nico (Paolo Contis), a
to do. However, once Mark reveals his true colors, and with Filipino reporter, and the two begin an illicit romance.
no one to rely on and trust, Elaisa’s state of mind completely
A Faraway Land incorporates different types of
breaks by the end of the film.
mainstream genre storytelling. It follows many of the tropes
Perhaps coincidentally, Nuuk can be compared to of films like Hello, Love Goodbye, in that it places a romance-
the earlier discussed Lamentasyon, which also delves into the drama in an exotic, lush locale, it touches upon the concerns
problems migrants face regarding access to mental health and of the migrant population there, and there is a choice between
emotional support systems. Nuuk is an anomaly compared a financially stable life and a more uncertain life back in the
to other, more conventional films of its type. It was initially homeland. In addition to this, because of the love triangle
received with a lukewarm response from audiences and critics, between Mahjoy, Sigmund, and Nico, the film also draws from
but its subversion of commonly held storytelling tropes the sub-genre of infidelity films, which is relatively common in
encourages a deeper look. local mainstream film and television.
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A Faraway Land tackles the phenomenon of marriage
migration, a gendered aspect of globalization, and a significant
aspect of the lives of many Filipino overseas workers. Women
make up a considerable portion of the overseas workforce;8
some, willingly or not, marry a foreign national in the country
they work in. This has the added benefit of gaining citizenship
and financial benefits for workers and their families. Many of
these workers are in fields related to domestic work, caregiving,
or even sex work, which predisposes them to interactions with
men.
The film is centered around Mahjoy’s choice between
two men, representing an ideal of “home.” Mahjoy has found
security with her husband, but he stands for a place and culture
that is not Mahjoy’s own. The other choice is rejecting the
overseas Filipino’s transnational state and returning to one’s
homeland. In one sequence, Nico gives Mahjoy a gift of food,
a parol (Filipino lantern) for Christmas, and an opportunity to
speak with a loved one. Nico’s overture toward Mahjoy places
him as a stand-in for home and all the things she misses by
being in the Faroe Islands. “Home,” as seen in this sequence,
does not only connote the homeland per se but can also exist in
many forms: food, Filipino-only social gatherings and events,
and, most importantly, family.
The film frames Mahjoy’s choice of whether staying
with her husband or leaving him for Nico is the “better” choice.
This is where the film falters: if the intent was to make Nico
and Mahjoy’s romance work, it struggles to tell the audience
why it should be a thing in the first place. First and foremost,
it’s a love story centered on cheating, which makes Nico and
Mahjoy hard to sympathize with. Indeed, there is no indication
that Sigmund is abusive to Mahjoy, and her in-laws and
husband are both accepting and loving. The only time Sigmund
gets angry is when Mahjoy neglects her responsibilities because
of her actions toward Nico. Although one other character says
Mahjoy didn’t like Sigmund at first, she later rebuts the idea,
and it seems the two are in a functional relationship. Later,
Mahjoy tells Nico that she intends to stay in the Faroe Islands.
Like Hello, Love, Goodbye’s Joy, she no longer intends to return
to the Philippines to live there, even though there are aspects
of her homeland that she misses. Also, because her mother
abandoned her as a young child, splitting up her family should
be the last thing on Mahjoy’s mind. Yet, perhaps because
of extended separation from her husband due to his work,
extended stress from work and childcare, or maybe just due to
a small moment of weakness, she engages in the affair anyway.
Her decision can also be read as a yearning for home, or at
least the idea of it. The fact that the affair is transient and ends
with Nico’s departure juxtaposes that fantasy of return with the
reality that Mahjoy will stay put for a very long time, if not the
rest of her life.
There is a level of stigmatization and prejudice toward
female overseas workers who get married to foreign nationals,
100
Mahjoy finds community with fellow overseas workers (almost entirely
women); a similar kind of community forming is also seen in Hello, Love,
Goodbye
Nico gifts Majhoy with things from home
in that it is perceived that their decision is fueled primarily by
financial opportunity. By getting married to these men, there
is a level of non-conformity to some arbitrarily established
notion of traditional Filipino femininity, reinforced through the
stereotype of the “mail-order bride” prevalent in various forms
of media. On the other hand, the reality is a bit more complex,
as these women should be free to do what they want, and
some form close, equitable, meaningful relationships with their
partners. In a field study conducted by Gwenola Ricordeau,9
interviewees from among Filipino marriage migrants showed
that their decision to marry was their own decision and
not forced upon them, and that their relationships were no
stranger to romance. Unfortunately, the film tacitly leans into
stereotypes by allowing the affair to be consummated. This
can be interpreted as the film revealing a deep dissatisfaction
on Mahjoy’s part and perhaps revealing that the marriage
may have been initially catalyzed less by love and more by
something else. Whether it eventually blossomed into true love
or not, the film leaves that aspect ambiguous.
Distaste for the main characters’ questionable actions
becomes the shaky foundation of a film whose disparate parts
fail to work together. Even the tragic ending, where Nico is
killed due to a culture of impunity back home, feels arbitrary
and tacked on for dramatic effect.
LONG TAKE
Conclusion
It goes without saying that only three films, regardless of
their influence and cultural importance, would barely scratch the
surface when trying to define a diaspora or OFW film. Despite
that, in the three films featured in this essay, I see certain patterns
in their construction, the themes they embody, and the characters
portrayed.
In two of these three films, there is a longing for home,
though not necessarily a desire for return, and the idea of “home”
does not only refer to the physical space but also to the people
these characters leave behind. Socioeconomic realities constrain
the characters of two of these films to live a life that may not
necessarily be their first choice. Visually, in the service of local
and expatriate audiences, the juxtaposition of the familiar and
unfamiliar is emphasized, often to differing ends.
In all three featured films in this piece, the central
protagonist is female. Two of them are mothers, while the
remaining one (Hello, Love, Goodbye’s Joy) is engaged in a
caregiving role. This reflects the proportion of women in the
overseas workforce10 (recent data shows women comprise
almost 60% of that workforce) and their cultural visibility as the
prototypical OFW. To audiences both here and abroad (perhaps
most importantly the latter), these women represent the nation, a
transnational Inang Bayan figure who can embody all manner of
discourse, with the potential for transformative or revolutionary
means.11 Their narratives and struggles reflect our own struggles
and the struggles of our relatives and, ultimately, our compatriots,
forming a collective imagination with no national boundaries.
Given the above, it must also be stressed that our current
system of labor export exists as a legacy of laws passed in the
1970s, where our neocolonial, neoliberal state utilizes foreign
capital for development and economic reforms. Despite this,
however, as we can see in all three of the films examined, one of
the central factors driving people away from the Philippines (and a
major source of conflict in at least two of them) is the failure of the
state to utilize this capital and 1) equitably provide for its citizens,
2) provide proper protections for these workers’ rights, and 3)
create meaningful economic reforms to render this labor export
system unnecessary eventually. To address these things, it falls on
the state to help safeguard the rights of our migrant workers via
protective labor legislation, especially the rights of Filipino women
overseas, and to create an economic milieu where the diaspora is
no longer forced due to economic hardship, but done freely out of
a desire for self-improvement, adding to the pool of knowledge, or
simply an expression of free will.
Until then, the Overseas Filipino Worker is eternally
displaced, their identity in two places simultaneously—their minds
eternally in an idea of “home” while bodies remain trapped in an
alien land.
John Tawasil is a medical specialist by trade as well as a
self-published fictionist. He has been writing about cinema
on his blog Present Confusion since 2005. With Michael
Edillor, he co-founded the Third World Cinema Club
podcast.
Endnotes
1 Dennis S. Mapa, “2020 Overseas Filipino Workers (Final Results),”
Philippine Statistics Authority, last modified March 7, 2022, accessed
July 30, 2022, psa.gov.ph/statistics/survey/labor-and-employment/
survey-overseas-filipinos.
2 Maruja Asis, M.B., 2017, “The Philippines: Beyond Labor Migra-
tion, Toward Development and (Possibly) Return ,” Migrationpolicy.
Org, accessed July 30, 2022, https://www.migrationpolicy.org/article/
philippines-beyond-labor-migration-toward-development-and-pos-
sibly-return.
3 Filomeno V. Aguilar, “Is the Filipino Diaspora A Diaspora?” Critical
Asian Studies 47 no. 3 (2015): 440-46.
4 Cherish Aileen B. Brillon, “In the Service of the Filipino World-
wide: The Filipino Overseas Worker in the Transnational Cinematic
Space” (conference paper, Sixth Annual Southeast Asian Cinemas
Conference on Theory and Practice, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam,
1-4 July, 2010).
5 See, for example, Joel David, “Phantom Limbs in the Body Politic:
Filipinos in Foreign Cinema,” Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Com-
munication, Media, and Society 11, no. 1 (2014): 102-127.
6 Patrick F. Campos offers a reading of The Maid and Thirst in The End
of National Cinema: Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century (Quezon
City: University of the Philippines Press, 2016), 307-309, 528-539.
7 Rolando B. Tolentino, “Geopolitical Space and the Chinese ‘City’
Films,” National/Transnational Subject Formation and Media In and
On the Philippines (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press,
2001), 205.
8 Mapa, “2020 Overseas Filipino Workers (Final Results).”
9 Gwenola Ricordeau, “Um Estudo De Caso Sobre O Policiamento
Global Dos Casamentos De Mulheres Do Terceiro Mundo: Mul-
heres Filipinas E Migração Matrimonial” [A case study about the
global policing of Third World intermarried women: Filipino women
and marriage migration] Cadernos Pagu, no. 51 (2018).
10 Mapa, “2020 Overseas Filipino Workers (Final Results).”
11 Katrina Ross Tan, “Women as Articulations of Nation-Space and an
Agency of Insularity: An Analysis of Selected Films by Jeffrey Jeturi-
an,” Review of Women’s Studies 20 no. 1-2 (2010): 9-10; see also Arjay
Arellano, “Mama, Home and Away: Philippine Cinema’s Discourse
on the Feminization of Labor Migration: Meaning, Power, and
Resistance,” (2019).
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I
n 2018, The Filipino Channel (TFC), a global
subscription network owned and operated by
ABS-CBN, one of the Philippines’ leading
broadcasting networks, conducted a study about Overseas
Filipino Workers (OFWs). Its findings signaled a significant
iteration and deviation from the usual image of the OFW. “If
before, mga Pinay, two decades ago, they felt na walang power,
helpless, grabe pinag-iba, empowered,” shared screenwriter
Carmi Raymundo in an interview.1 “Dati tiis, para sa pamilya,
lahat titiisin, ito lang buhay ko, everything for other people…
Based doon sa naging research, hindi na ganoon, ‘yong mga Ethan Del Rosario, played by actor Alden Richards, is a bartender in Hong
Pinays natuto na magtabi para sa sarili nila. How can I Kong who falls for Joy Fabregas, a second-generation domestic worker played
pour from an empty cup?2” Such findings from the research by Kathryn Bernardo. Bernardo, however, moonlights as a dishwasher at the
bar Ethan works in so she can save up more money as soon as possible to leave
would later become the springboard for the creation of the the city. From Hello, Love, Goodbye (Prod. Star Cinema). All images are author's
Philippines’ highest-grossing3 film to date, Hello, Love, Goodbye. screenshots of the films

In the same interview, Raymundo emphasized the

renewed motivation of many women OFWs that would be
echoed in the film: “May pangarap, hindi na ito ang final
destination. Marami pa akong puwedeng gawin, may gusto
akong marating sa buhay.” This attitude is a significant shift
from the long-suffering image and identity festooned on
OFWs by the government, particularly through the labor
export policy introduced in the 1970s by the late dictator
Ferdinand Marcos and the rhetoric of the “Bagong Bayani”
popularized during the time of Corazon Aquino in 1988.
As explained by political scientist Jean Encinas-Franco,
the conventional rhetoric extols sufferance even as the state
acknowledges that the OFWs’ sacrifices are defined by precarity
and risk, by the dangers of being abused by employers and
having limited protection under the law.4
Hello, Love Goodbye centers on the lives of Joy Marie
Fabregas (Kathryn Bernardo), a second-generation domestic
worker, and Ethan Del Rosario (Alden Richards), a bartender
whose shot at being a permanent resident in the special
administrative region of Hong Kong was thwarted by his
decision to move to the United States with his then-partner.
The two would meet and eventually fall in love in Hong Kong.
However, Joy has plans of leaving. The nursing graduate aims
to save up enough money so she can explore greener pastures in
Canada. Ethan, on the other hand, now aims to stay in Hong
Kong. The divergence in their dreams and priorities becomes
the central conflict in their romance.

Joy explains to Ethan why she has no space for any romantic relationships or commitments in her life

102 103
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The protagonists’ story is based on an amalgam
of stories of overseas workers in Hong Kong, where over
197,817 Filipino domestic workers were employed as of
2021, according to data from Hong Kong’s Immigration
Department.5 Ronalisa Co, who helmed the film’s screenplay
along with Raymundo and director Cathy Garcia-Molina,
said she was able to interview a male domestic worker whose
plight was similar to that of Ethan: “Domestic helper nanay
niya, nurse siya dito, pumunta siya sa Hong Kong, ‘tsaka
naging domestic helper. Siya rin ‘yong may girlfriend na Joy na
iniwan.”6
In the real-life basis of the story, Joy had the
opportunity to leave Hong Kong and get a job equivalent
to being a domestic worker in France. However, Co said
her aspirations did not end there: the real-life Joy aimed to
have her citizenship changed eventually. In the film, Kathryn
Bernardo’s Joy would also go on to leave Ethan and pursue her
dreams in Canada.
Hello, Love, Goodbye presents a stark departure from
the depiction of the life of a Filipina domestic worker. To
compare it with a previous film also produced by Star Cinema,
Anak (2000) shows the domestic worker, played by Vilma
Santos, as a silent sufferer who toils for years in Hong Kong
only to return home to a family who does not consider her a
part of it. Anak fits the earlier convention of OFW films, which,
according to Elmo Gonzaga, “focus on the geographic dispersal
and emotional dislocation of families, who, experiencing
abandonment, fail to recognize this self-sacrifice.”7
In Hello, Love, Goodbye, Joy is aware of her mother’s
sacrifices for their family. When her mother decides to marry a
local in Hong Kong, she tries to understand where her mother
is coming from, and so does her father, even as he continues
to lament his wife’s choice to leave him. Joy also continues
to do everything she can for them, with her ambition to
move to Canada also driven by her desire to help her family.
Nevertheless, her family is not the only force or factor for this
aspiration; it is a goal fueled by her dreams for herself.
“For the longest time, ang depiction natin ng overseas
Filipinos, ‘Bagong Bayani,’ ‘yong nagpapakamatay, patay para
sa bayan, sa pamilya, parang ganoon. Na hindi naman ganoon,
pero hindi ibig sabihin na masama, na selfish, na madamot sila.
Tao sila. May sarili rin silang pangarap,” 8 Raymundo said.
Confronting Filipinos’ Classism
Another movie, written and directed by Hong Kong
filmmaker Oliver Siu Kuen, also tries to break the “modern
hero” stereotype. The award-winning Still Human (2018)
tells the story of Evelyn Santos, a second-generation Filipina
domestic worker who was able to pursue her passion of
becoming a photographer through the support of her employer,
104
SHORT TAKE
Evelyn Santos, played by Crisel Consunji and Leung Cheong-wing, played by
Anthony Wong, explore the city together, with Evelyn hoisted on the wheel-
chair of the paralytic Leung Cheong-wing
For some Filipina domestic workers, Sundays mean beauty pageants in Central, the main business district of Hong Kong. From Sunday Beauty Queen
a paralyzed local named Leung Cheong-Wing, played by Hong
Kong actor Anthony Wong.
a Hongkonger’s: “How will you tell a story that’s not yours? Of Space and Identities
The movie’s plot is not far-fetched. It reflects the story
Filipino OFWs are portrayed as sob stories. ‘Poor you, woe is
of real-life Filipina domestic worker-turned photographer
Central is one of the districts in Hong Kong, the
Xyza Bacani, who gained global recognition and acclaim for me.’ What do you have to share?”10
streets of which are filled with Filipina domestic workers
her photos depicting the lives of foreign domestic workers,
Consunji said she was surprised to find out that during Sundays, their designated day off. They could be seen
including that of her own mother, also a domestic worker in
the writer and director of the film, Oliver Siu Kuen, did her sitting in groups, with makeshift mats and partitions made of
Hong Kong. Bacani, who worked as a domestic worker for
research well, so much so that she was able to show the range cardboard. The Filipino domestic workers would gather and eat
ten years, bought her first camera money loaned to her by her
of the humanity and capacity of Filipino domestic workers, an there together. This image is the kind of Central seen in Hello,
mother’s employer, Kathryn Louey. In 2015, she was selected
imperative message that challenges Filipinos to recognize their Love, Goodbye and Still Human, a place where Filipina domestic
as one of the Magnum Foundation Human Rights Fellows.
very own misconceptions about domestic workers. “Filipinos, workers congregate and where Joy, Bernardo’s character, goes
The photos she took became part of her book, We Are Like Air,
anywhere in the world, we are such a classist society. It’s around as she tries to sell her wares.
published in December 2018.
always, whatever your class was in the Philippines, the social
class you were in, seems to define you. It’s a nasty hierarchical Central is also the biggest stage for domestic workers
Bacani will not be the last Filipina domestic worker in
society, almost like an unspoken caste system,” she said in who compete to become beauty queens, even just for a day,
Hong Kong to become a professional photographer. In 2017,
the interview.11 “There was such discrimination among us in Baby Ruth Villarama’s Sunday Beauty Queen (2016). The
Joanna Pabona, who had been working in Hong Kong since
Filipinos,” the Filipina performer and businesswoman, who documentary shows how Filipina domestic workers are
2013, would win first runner-up in the National Geographic
has been in Hong Kong for fourteen years, stressed.12 “People associated with Central, as the place serves as the space where
Wheelock Properties Youth Photo Competition. Pabona
will tell me not to go to Central, mapagkakamalan kang ‘ate.’ they could explore and exhibit their interests in dancing,
photographed scenes in everyday Hong Kong, capturing the
That’s so demeaning, and that’s so derogatory towards your own singing, and organizing events. The film shows scenes of their
atmosphere of a city that has become the destination of many
people.”13 preparation for the pageant alongside the everyday scenes of
Filipinos like her, who, while having completed a degree in
their work and struggles as domestic workers, giving us a peek
her home country, could not earn as much working in the
Still Human endeavors to show that diversity is part into the varied relationship between employers and employees.
Philippines compared to becoming a domestic worker abroad.
of living. In an interview with Asian Movie Pulse, Consunji
In 2019, she quit being a domestic worker and became a full- The documentary presents a mix of experiences.
said her goal with the film “was also to make people not think
time photographer. Pabona, in an article in The Standard, said Some face harsh treatment from their employers; one of the
diversity is a bad thing, not to make people think people in
she wanted to “break the stereotype” about domestic workers, domestic workers, Rudelie, gets fired after she fails to meet her
this situation, in wheelchairs or minorities, are pathetic…. This
their being perceived as a lower class.9 curfew one Sunday. Other employers, ranging from mothers
is some kind of very bad generalization, the so-called ‘these
people.’ But they are not ‘these people,’ they are ‘us,’ they are to veteran film directors, express support for domestic workers,
This is also why Criselda Consunji, the Filipina actress
just everyone. People have different destinies; they run into even cheering them on as they try to win the crown in the
who portrayed Santos wanted to be part of Still Human. In an
different lives.”14 beauty pageant. Rudelie’s new employer even watches with
interview, she told Pelikula that she mainly wanted to work
her son as Rudelie dances onstage as part of the program. The
on the film because she wanted to know how the film would
beauty pageants in Central are not just held for the pomp and
approach a story or a struggle that is not inherently that of
pageantry but also as part of charity work, as they are usually
105
 SHORT TAKE
held for a cause, as explained by Leo, one of the domestic
workers who organizes the event. In Sunday Beauty Queen,
Central serves closest to its conventional image as the place
where domestic workers could congregate, but also as a space
they could transform, albeit temporarily, and escape from their
six days of hard work.
Less enthusiastically, The Helper, a 2017 documentary
by Hong Kong-based filmmaker Joanna Bowers, depicts some
domestic workers who are discouraged by their employers
from going to Central on Sundays. “Nakikita niya maraming
helper nagtatambay sa Central, ‘pag dumadaan sila mga bata
‘pag Sunday, wala silang madaanan kasi nasa gilid, nakaupo
mga kapwa nating Pilipino,” Liza Avelino, a domestic worker
who was featured in the documentary, said in an interview.15
Avelino, however, did not take this observation as demeaning.
On the contrary, it made her realize that domestic workers
could expand and extend their interests and hobbies beyond
Central. Rather, the domestic workers’ choice to be somewhere
else becomes a way of discovering who else they can be other
than the go-to breadwinners of their respective families.
“‘Pag titingnan mo, ganito na lang ba kami, ganito
na lang ba kababa ‘yong - dito na lang ba kami sa lapag, sa
underpass, sa ilalim ng bridge? We also earn money. We should
do something to upgrade ‘yong respeto sa sarili. Nakikita
ng mga tao, a ganyan pala mga helper ‘pag Sunday, they do
something else, hindi lang nakatambay ‘don, nakahiga sa daan,
nagtsi-tsikahan,”16 she said in an interview with Pelikula in
2022. Avelino then opted to go to public libraries, then try
hiking. This sparked a dream within her, something that would
take her to over twenty-five hiking destinations, including the
Everest base camp and Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania.
Another set of domestic workers who chose to inhabit
another space during Sundays were the members of the choir
Unsung Heroes, formed by Jane Engelmann, who belonged to
the performing arts industry in the city. Again, the domestic
workers practiced on Sundays. In the film, they are shown
rehearsing the song “I Wish I Could Kiss You Good Night,”
which speaks of the longing of the domestic workers for their
children back home. The choir became a hit, so much so that
they could perform at Clockenflap, one of the most awaited
music and arts festivals in Hong Kong. Engelmann, in the film,
challenges the choir to make the audiences in Clockenflap “see
you as real people with real stories, not just domestic helpers,
because that’s not who you are, that’s not who you are going to
be.”
Joanna Bowers said her primary motivation in making
The Helper was to change the misconception that foreign
domestic workers are “one-dimensional.” In an interview, she
explained, “People are looking at migrant domestic workers
here as like indentured servants most of the time…. That was a
massive misconception, that people didn’t understand that these
106
“Unsung Heroes,” a choir made up of foreign migrant workers, prepares for
their performance at Clockenflap, one of the biggest music and arts festivals in
Hong Kong. From The Helper
Liza Avelino, a Filipina domestic worker, goes for a hike abroad, fulfilling one
of her dreams to climb mountains all over the world. From The Helper
are women, with families, lives and goals, and ambitions,”17 she
said in an interveiw. To her, domestic workers must be depicted
as “more fully-rounded, people to be respected.”18
However, she was also aware that even if the domestic
workers featured in her documentary deviated from the usual
activities done in Central, Central remained the only option
for many OFWs in Hong Kong, who have no space to call
their own inside the homes of the families they work for.
“They have no living room to relax in; this is their equivalent
of that,” Bowers said, pointing out how Central also represents
the community. “People go to those groups or networks and
reinforce the sense of identity they miss back home”, she said in
an interveiw.19
Diversity and Deviation
The digression from the usual space they go to on
Sundays, as shown in the films “Hello, Love, Goodbye,” “Still
Human” and “The Helper,” signals the expansion of domestic
workers’ interests, aspirations, and identities at different levels.
Labor policies in Hong Kong can shackle them to fixed
identities, mainly because foreign domestic workers can never
be granted permanent residency no matter how long they have
worked in the city. This situation is the unique challenge that
the films take on, as they try to show that domestic workers
SHORT TAKE
are and could be well-rounded individuals despite limitations Devoid of the nostalgia for homeland that permeates
imposed on their social and economic mobility. earlier iterations of the migrant labor melodrama,
key melodramatic situations are set not in homes or
In Still Human and Hello, Love, Goodbye, even as
restaurants but in airports or trains, spaces of transit
Evelyn and Joy regularly go there to Central to meet with
where protagonists meet for the first time or diverge
their friends and fellow domestic workers, they have the
in separate ways. For characters who are beset by
inherent desire to carve or create another space altogether for failed romances and career failures, such spaces of
ambitions they could solely call theirs. This space is physical transit serve as platforms for self-fashioning and
and conceptual, where their desires to achieve something self-actualization where they can recuperate their
for themselves imbricate and intersect. Hence, even as they confidence and resilience before resuming their
frequent Central, they are conscious that they will not struggle to realize their career aspirations in the face of
always be there, a nod to the impression of Hong Kong as deep uncertainty.21
a “stopover.” In the case of Hello, Love, Goodbye, this also
affects and characterizes the developments in the relationship
between lovers, Joy and Ethan: “Two ships passing, stopover
This assertion of agency in various ways has made Hong Kong
‘to, transience ng pagmamahal,” as Raymundo describes it in an
the milieu of possibilities for testing how far a domestic worker
interview with Pelikula in 2022.20
can break away from the “Bagong Bayani” branding, though
Unlike going back to the Philippines, the ultimate this sense of identity is also evolving now for Filipino domestic
destination of OFWs in general, the space for self-actualization workers in Hong Kong. From Anak to Still Human, the story
in these films is not quintessentially the Motherland but of the domestic worker is also in transition in this space of
somewhere else. Of course, this fact does not make the struggle transience.
for migrant workers less difficult, nor does it present perfect
growth, but there is a chance to be someone else. As Gonzaga
posits:
Purple Romero is a freelance journalist who writes about labor issues, gender, politics and human rights. She also writes film
essays and movie reviews for Asian Movie Pulse and High On Films. Her articles on OFW films and crisis cinema have been
published in UK-based publications Little White Lies and The New Voice.
Endnotes
9 Stella Wong, “Helper’s World View Widens,” The Standard, March 4,
1 Carmi Raymundo, interviewed by Purple Romero, Zoom Interview,
February 2, 2022, quote used with permission.
2019, accessed on October 23, 2022, www.thestandard.com.hk/section-
news/section/4/205546/Helper’s-world-view-widens.
2 Raymundo, Zoom Interview, February 2, 2022.
10 Criselda Consunji, interviewed by Purple Romero, Zoom Interview,
3 Mathew Scott, “Rom-Com ‘Hello, Love, Goodbye’ Becomes Highest-
Grossing Filipino Film of All Time,” September 10, 2019, The Hollywood
February 11, 2022, quote used with permission.
Reporter, accessed on October 23, 2022, www.hollywoodreporter.com/
11 Consunji, Zoom Interview, February 11, 2022.
12 Ibid.
movies/movie-news/hello-love-goodbye-sets-record-at-philippines-box-
13 Ibid.
office-1238526/.
4 Jean Encinas-Franco, “The Language of Labor Export in Political
14 Adriana Rosati, “Interview with Director Oliver Siu Kuen Chan,
Actress Crisel Consunji and Actor Anthony Wong: ‹I had to manage
Discourse: ‘Modern-Day Heroism’ and Constructions of Overseas
lots of people that, like me, were not familiar with what they were
Filipino Workers (OFWs),” Philippine Political Science Journal 34 no.
doing,’” Asian Movie Pulse, May 15 2019, accessed on October 23, 2022,
1, (2013): 97-112.
asianmoviepulse.com/2019/05/interview-with-director-oliver-siu-kuen-
5 Hong Kong News Staff, “Population of Filipino Domestic Workers in
chan-actress-crisel-consunji-and-actor-anthony-wong/.
HK drops to 197,817,” Hong Kong News, October 26, 2021, accessed on
15 Liza Avelino , interviewed by Purple Romero, Zoom Interview, February
October 23, 2022, hongkongnews.com.hk/top_stories/population-of-
12, 2022, quote used with permission.
filipino-domestic-workers-in-hk-drops-to-197817/.
16 Avelino, Zoom Interview, February 12, 2022.
6 Ronalisa Co, interviewed by Purple Romero, Zoom Interview, February 1,
2022, quote used with permission.
17 Joanna Bowers, interviewed by Purple Romero, Zoom Interview,
February 8, 2022, quote used with permission
7 Elmo Gonzaga, “Neoliberal Risk and Platform Citizenship in the
18 Bowers, Zoom Interview, February 8, 2022.
Transmedia Genre of the Migrant Labor Melodrama” (working paper,
19 Ibid.
International Cultural Studies Program, Faculty of Department of
Cultural and Religious Studies, The Chinese University of Hong Kong,
20 Raymundo, Zoom Interview, February 2, 2022.
21 Gonzaga, “Neoliberal Risk and Platform Citizenship in the Transmedia
Shatin, Hong Kong, 2022)
Genre of the Migrant Labor Melodrama.”
8 Raymundo, Zoom Interview, February 2, 2022.
107
 LONG TAKE LONG TAKE
A
review of the few existing literature on Philippine
film animation explicates a history that can
generally be situated along three interrelated
streams: the form’s mutualism with comic arts, or komiks as it
is known in the vernacular; its intervening relationship with
political and institutional entities; and its industrialization,
collocated in the proliferation of domestic animation studios.
Of the three, I seek to critically analyze only the third, setting
aside the other two for merited discussion at another time.
Specifically, this article aims to surface how the development
of Philippine animation as an industry articulates captivity as a
modality of postcolonialism.
While related to its usage in the social sciences,
particularly its ties to western conquest and its denotation as
the practice of literally capturing peoples, I simultaneously
borrow the term and notion of captivity elsewhere: from the
field of business. A captive unit in business parlance is defined
by Ilan Oshri in his book Offshoring Strategies: Evolving
Captive Center Models as an offshore entity established by
and operating for, or mainly for, a parent company.1 Captivity
can thus be understood as the state in which a subordinate
entity is legally owned or controlled by a superordinate. I
extrapolate this definition to explore captivity beyond but close
to its business notion, arguing that captivity in the cultural
sense has also betided the Philippine animation industry.
Moreover, I discuss how the captive state of the industry has
been mated with nationalism. On the other hand, decolonizing
counterflows to captivity are also leveled.
Defining Captivity
Using the homonym “captive” to identify overseas
subsidiaries, particularly those attached to multinational
corporations, invites scrutiny on the humanist origins of the
term, which aligns with its modern business usage. Called
captivity narratives, accounts of North American settlers
literally held captive by pirates, natives, and other “others”
comprise a genre in colonial discourse buoyed by ideological
undercurrents that construct the subjectivity of both captives
and captors. However, Paulin Turner Strong in her book
Captive Selves, Captivating Others demonstrates that such
narratives have traditionally been selective in their telling
and retelling, lending a rationale for violent conquest under
the pretext of civilizing. For instance, the well-known Native
American figure Pocahontas’s captivity was largely uninscribed
in Anglo-American colonial history. This erasure can be
understood to be due to her capture and subsequent alliance
with settlers contradicting the hegemonic and oppositional
representation of the dual English as captive and “Indian” as
captor. To borrow Strong’s term, this typification, among others
of captivity, dominates colonial historical narratives that have
since come to represent Euro-American identity.2
108
In cinema, captivity narratives have often been associated
with motifs concerning the body, engendering the concept of
the captive body. How film is exploited to construct corporeal
images elucidates its performative role in othering and of
“containing” its subjects. According to Gwendolyn Audrey
Foster in her book Captive Bodies: Postcolonial Subjectivity in
Cinema, the trope of the body in bondage and captivity is itself
only a simulation of reality, preserving into order gender, racial,
sexual, and colonial binaries such as masculinity and femininity,
whiteness and blackness, heterosexuality and homosexuality,
and ultimately, captivity and freedom which are all apropos
to experienced reality.3 Incidentally, film itself bears captive
connotations in its active vocabulary. Foster touches upon
phrases such as to “shoot” a film, to “capture” images, and to
be “captivated” by the cinematic spectacle to suggest film’s
cinematographic affinity with captivity, conceiving the camera
as a captive apparatus whose gaze consequently implicates its
holder as the captor, figuratively.
While early captivity narratives were authored to
legitimize the perceived threats to western colonial enterprises,
my usage of captivity upends this traditional notion. It alters
the authoritative representation of the Euro-American
colonizer as captive, shifting the locus of rhetoric from one
that is exclusionary to one of accountability. The conventional
narrative frames the imperial settler as the victim and the
“others” as the enemy, respectively, but I appropriate the term
captivity to mean the opposite. By dislocating the role of the
colonizer as captive and restoring his role as captor, I reprise
captivity into a colonial condition leveraged for and not against
the colonized. Through this understanding, to be held captive
is to be subjected to colonialism and bound within colonial
parameters. This subverted definition becomes my basis for
positing how captivity is reified in the postcolonial era.
In the wake of capitalism, the western colonizer has
reconfigured itself into a monopoly, albeit fulfilling the same
ideological function of conquest, this time through the mode
of international trade. Aptly, these monopolies, as exemplified
by the global animation industry, more often than not own
and control offshore business entities, which have come to
be known as “captive” centers or units, drawing the parallel
between this operational and the aforementioned colonial
notion of captivity.
Besides a reversal of the traditional captive-captor
role, postcolonial captivity can be differentiated territorially.
Whereas in traditional captivity narratives, subjects are
captured and held in foreign territory, in modernity, captive
entities are held within their own territory, “captured” by the
commercial dragnets of expansionist corporations. Control
forfeited, an entity is then, following Strong’s notion, rendered
captive by its dispossession of power, not unlike the uninscribed
capture of natives by settlers whose exercise of superiority is
109
 LONG TAKE
typified by such collection of othered individuals as tokens.4
A treatment of captivity distinct from its Eurocentric gaze,
therefore, articulates, on the one hand, colonial subjectivity
from the standpoint of the captive or colonized and subverts,
on the other, traditional power relations by coalescing the role
of captor and colonizer as one and the same.
Having laid out the article’s critical purview, what follows
is a history of the Philippine animation industry viewed
through the lens of captivity. I peregrinate across the major
domestic studios and works emerging from the industry to
discursively demonstrate its entanglement with captivity,
positioning the Philippine animation industry as a critical site
in Philippine postcolonial discourse.
Nascency in Advertising
Before progressing into its present state, Philippine
animation had roots in the postwar era when cartoonists and
illustrators like Jose Zabala Santos, Francisco Reyes, Larry
Alcala, Jeremias Elizalde Navarro, and Vicente Peñetrante
dabbled with the form.5 Early accounts suggest that domestic
animation, among its start, found sustenance and subsistence
on the turf of television advertising. According to John A. Lent,
Santos produced animation for commercials in 1952 under
the Philippine Manufacturing Company (PMC).6 Following
Cynthia Roxas and Joaquin Arevalo Jr.’s account, Santos joined
PMC in 1949 then left the company in 1970 and subsequently
worked in Reyes’ advertising agency, which also did some TV
ads for PMC.7
In 1955, Santos and Reyes produced the animated
commercial Juan Tamad in which Santos’s nephew Nonoy
Marcelo, who would later become a notable figure in animation
himself, also had a hand in making. Marcelo asserts, though
processed in New York, the commercial advertised the
local product Purico,8 a vegetable shortening brand and a
portmanteau of Spanish puro and rico. Juan Tamad had the
namesake of a popular character in Philippine folklore and was,
according to Marcelo, the longest animated commercial at the
time,9 although Nick Deocampo reputes the film did not have
its run.10
Meanwhile, Larry Alcala worked for Universal
Promotions in 1956, doing commercials for clients such as
Darigold and Caltex, the latter for whom he drew characters
such as two enthusiastic gas station servicers eager to do their
job. According to Deocampo, the 15-second black-and-white
advert that featured the characters was shot with a 16mm
Bolex and shown on TV, while Alcala’s 35mm commercial for
Darigold appeared as film ads in cinemas and on television.11
This antecedence of Philippine animation as primarily an
advertising tool and thus an extension of selling proprietary
goods harbingered the form’s eventual concession to the
110
dominant business process outsourcing model in the decades
that followed, mainly serving the commercial interests of
foreign entities.
The Two Early Major Studios12
The expensive outlay for starting a full-fledged animation
facility in the country inhibited, on the one hand, the
formation of possibly but one major Filipino-owned studio
in the 1980s and spurred, on the other, the trend of service
exportation, which proved to generate higher profit margins. In
1983 or a year later, Optifex International, Inc. was established
along Salcedo Street in Makati, a Filipino outfit founded
by Chito S. Roño that likewise engaged in producing local
TVCs and OBBs. In an interview, Nelson B. Caliguia Sr. said
that although primarily service-oriented, Optifex had aspired
to create Filipino narratives and envisioned adapting a fable
best known as a retelling of Jose Rizal’s childhood—the tale
between the moth and the flame, but the film never came to
fruition.13
Around the time Optifex was established, another studio
operated along the same street in Makati, bearing the name
Burbank Animation, Inc. (BAI). According to Giannalberto
Bendazzi, the outfit was a subsidiary of Australian animation
company Burbank Films and became known as the first
instance of a foreign-owned animation facility to incorporate
into Southeast Asia.14 While initially providing ink-and-paint
work, Dan Torre and Lienors Torre observes that BAI later
variegated, offering professional services such as storyboarding,
animation, inbetweening, layouts, backgrounds, editing, mixing,
and photography.15 In a personal interview, Achiu So recounts
that among the projects the studio received were sourced from
Marvel Productions through Sunbow Productions, which
commissioned BAI for The Care Bears (1986–88), Defenders of
the Earth (1986–87), and My Little Pony (1986–87).16
The perceived gloss of BAI, effectuated by impressions
of a workplace where the shows being made were for famous
American names such as Marvel, and where women animators
were seen wearing boots and dresses to work as opposed to
the plain-clothed employees of Optifex, attracted a number
of the latter to transfer to the Australian studio and marked
what would be the onset of labor poaching between the two
companies, consequently compelling Filipino animators into
moonlighting. As a former employee of BAI and Optifex
recalls, he found himself working for the Australian studio
during the day and then for the Filipino studio at night.
The mature animation background of BAI, however,
coupled with its enticing higher wages, arguably gave it the
upper hand over the neophyte Optifex. The offshore studio
not only produced animation for local commercials—with
Larry Alcala among those it commissioned17—and TV shows,
LONG TAKE
but also did portions for full-length television films adapted
from literary classics. Following the historical account by Torre
and Torre, these were workload forwarded from and principally
handled by Burbank’s main studios in Sydney.18 Examples of such
animated features were Alice Through the Looking Glass (1987),
The Odyssey (1987), Black Tulip (1988), Hiawatha (1988), and The
Corsican Brothers (1989).
Bendazzi notes that some 80 Filipino animators and five Defenders of the Earth
(Marvel Productions, 1986–87). Images
Australian trainers originally comprised the workforce of BAI, but
are author's screenshot of the shows
their number grew twofold in less than three years,19 owing to the
studio’s expansion of its reach globally. Indeed, according to Lent,
BAI provided services to countries like France, Belgium, New
Zealand, and the United States.20 In its heyday, Torre and Torre
states that BAI’s staff rose to about 500 employees.21
Meanwhile, Optifex pursued advances of its own in
positioning itself more competitively. In an interview, Chito S.
Roño said its management flew to the United States to directly
engage with a potential partner,22 and as early as 1986, Optifex
My Little Pony
had thus served as a contractor to Hanna-Barbera, an American
(Marvel Productions, Sunbow
monolith in animation production. That same year saw William Productions, Hasbro, 1986–87)
Hanna, creator of Tom & Jerry and co-founder of Hanna-Barbera,
personally visit Optifex to oversee its animation work. Foofur
(1986–88), The Jetsons (1962–63; 1985; 1987), Snorks (1984–88),
The New Adventures of Jonny Quest (1986–87), and Scooby-Doo and
the Reluctant Werewolf (1988) were some of the western shows and
features the local studio had a role in animating, in addition to
contributing to iterations of The Flintstones and Yogi Bear, among
other cartoons.
Alice Through the Looking Glass
Optifex’s moves were to be confronted with a caveat, as (Andrea Bresciani and Richard
Slapczynski, Burbank Films Australia
Hanna-Barbera planned to establish its own subsidiary in the
1987)
country. The initiative spearheaded by Jerry Smith, a Hanna-
Barbera associate who had previously successfully planted
operations for the company in Australia, Taiwan, and South
Korea, led to the formation of Fil-Cartoons, Inc. The studio
was incorporated in November 1987 and eased into the local
animation scene, becoming the official Philippine appendage of
Hanna-Barbera.
Optifex, on the other hand, had arrived at its tail end. Benji
Agoncillo recounts that by the last quarter of 1988, Optifex The Odyssey
(Warwick Gilbert and Geoff Collins,
stopped receiving work from Hanna-Barbera23 and eventually
Burbank Films Australia, 1987)
folded. The vagaries of business also led to the closure of BAI,
and not long after, of its parent company. Their cessation
was portended when New World Pictures acquired Marvel
Productions along with Marvel Comics Group in 1986. Following
the move, there were bids to have BAI similarly acquired by
the American firm, but a buyout never eventuated according to
sources.24 Bankruptcy soon shuttered business for BAI, and in
1989, Burbank Films itself divested.25
Black Tulip
(Franco Cristofani, Burbank Films
Australia, 1988)
111

Foofur
(Hanna-Barbera Productions, 1986–88)
Snorks
(Nic Broca, Hanna-Barbera
Productions, 1984–88)
Scooby-Doo! and the Reluctant Werewolf
(Ray Patterson, Hanna-Barbera
Productions, 1988)
The Fil-Cartoons, Inc. logo
112
LONG TAKE
The Rise of Fil-Cartoons
In what seemed to be a triumphant maneuver for Hanna-Barbera, the
decline of BAI and Optifex became the conduit for the pool of talent from
both lapsed studios to converge into Fil-Cartoons. Agoncillo recounts that
its production was initially housed in a makeshift office in Luna Mencias,
Mandaluyong, then relocated to the corporate buildings along Emerald
Avenue, Pasig, before returning to Mandaluyong to occupy an enormous
facility26—said to be the largest of its kind in the world at the time, as
claimed in its promotional advertisement27—fulfilling outsourced work for
many of the popular animated shows in the United States where its parent
company was headquartered. In 1989, Fil-Cartoons exceeded the employee
count of BAI at over 900, according to Margaret Parkes, one of the animation
directors based in the studio at the time and among the contingent Australian
staff who managed Fil-Cartoons initially.28 By 1993, Jonathan Karp reports
that the studio’s workforce had peaked at nearly 1,000.29
Although Fil-Cartoons was long-lived and operated for more than 12
years, as with BOI’s fate, it eventually ended business in 2001. By then, the
studio had accumulated a lengthy project portfolio, having serviced not only
Hanna-Barbera but also other media and entertainment giants such as Fox,
Dreamworks, Disney, and Saban.30 Some of the animated films and series
the studio had worked on in various capacities were Snorks (1984–88), Police
Academy: The Animated Series (1988–89), The Smurfs (1981–89), Meena (1991),
The Pirates of Dark Water (1991–92), The Ren & Stimpy Show (1991–96), The
Addams Family (1992–93), Daisy-Head Mayzie (1994), The Legends of Treasure
Island (1993–95), Dexter’s Laboratory (1996–2003), Johnny Bravo (1997–
2004), The Powerpuff Girls (1998–2003), The Mask (1995–97), The Magic
Pudding (2000), God, the Devil and Bob (2000), Joseph: King of Dreams (2000),
Juanito Jones (2001), and many others. The studio also contributed to the TV
franchises of then-popular western cartoon characters, namely Paddington
Bear, The Flintstones, Yogi Bear, Jonny Quest, Tom and Jerry, Scooby-Doo,
The Jetsons, Cow and Chicken, Donald Duck, and more.
The animation work for most of these titles passing through Fil-
Cartoons was not always outsourced solely to the studio but divided among
one or more production houses in other countries. It was not uncommon
for Hanna-Barbera to hire multiple service providers in order to distribute
the work required for various aspects of its film projects, as did other major
production companies at the time. Such an arrangement does not necessarily
preclude prime contractors from subcontracting other studios, hence the
assembly of a hierarchical and elongated pipeline that is often witnessed in
the production of full-length animated films, for which hundreds of workers
are employed and thousands of yearslong workhours are rendered.
In the same manner, Fil-Cartoons not only received requests from
clients directly but also partnered with other studios as a subcontractor, if
not as a co-servicer. Wang Film Productions in Taiwan, Mr. Big Cartoons in
Australia, AKOM Production and Saerom Animation in South Korea, and
Jade Animation in China, among others, were some of the overseas studios
that had worked on the same projects as Fil-Cartoons. Collaboration also
occurred at the local level, with Fil-Cartoons having subcontracted other
outfits in the country, such as Philippine Animation Studio, Inc. (PASI),
which it considered an ally.31
LONG TAKE
PASI of Malaysia
Contrary to its name, PASI was also a captive entity that originated
as an enterprise of Malaysian-Tamil business magnate Ananda Krishnan.
The Makati-based studio was established in 1990 and similarly grew,
as with the production houses before it, to employ a sizeable workforce,
comprising, according to Carol Espiritu, of about 400 in-house artists and
150 freelancers in 1996.32 Some of these individuals originally came from
Fil-Cartoons, who were themselves formerly BAI or Optifex—a contiguity
that characterizes the close-knittedness of an industry engendered by a
tight labor market, which has remained to be its present condition.
Don Groves notes that by 1999, the number of PASI’s internal Headquarters of Fil-Cartoons, Inc., the Philippine
subsidiary of Hanna-Barbera, formerly located in
artists had increased to 500 and its facility had fully transitioned to digital Mandaluyong
technology.33 Accompanying these changes was a shift in focus from
services to co-production ventures, which the studio reinforced through
a new policy it began implementing in 2000, according to Christopher
Harz.34 Aligning with Tessa Jazmines’ accounts, the “artist-invested”
scheme offered PASI employees a percentage in profit for every co-
production they participated in, basically granting them credit-based
ownership relative to their productivity.35
Perhaps due to this strategic change, PASI weathered the Asian
financial crisis in 1997, operating for more than two decades. Among
the contractual or co-produced animation projects the studio had seen
throughout its lifetime were X-Men: The Animated Series (1992–97), Biker
Mice from Mars (1993–96; 2006–7), Bob and Margaret (1993–2001), The Smurfs
(Hanna-Barbera Productions, SEPP
Fantastic Four: The Animated Series (1994–96), The Mask (1995–97), Happily
International S.A., Lafig S.A., 1981–89)
Ever After: Fairy Tales for Every Child (1995–2000), Waynehead (1996–97),
Anthony Ant (1999), Mumble Bumble (1999), The Adventures of Tom Thumb
& Thumbelina (2002), My Gym Partner’s a Monkey (2005–8), Johnny
Test (2005–14) and several others. In addition, because of its Malaysian
affiliation, PASI had also worked on the Annecy award-winning TV
series Kampung Boy (1998–99),36 produced and aired by Astro (All-Asian
Satellite Television and Radio Operator), a major Malaysian TV network
likewise founded by Ananda Krishnan. Other projects received by PASI
were sourced from clients in the United States, Japan, Canada, France,
Denmark, and Hungary.37
Toei of Japan The Ren & Stimpy Show
( John Kricfalusi, Spümcø, Games
Though an outlier among the prevailing western-owned operations, Animation, 1991–96)
PASI was not the only captive studio in the Philippines whose owner had
originated from Asia. Another player from the region also approached
the country in the interest of outsourcing labor, no less one that is a major
animation producer. Established earlier than PASI, Toei Animation Phils.,
Inc. (TAPI) was formed due to an untypical alliance between a Philippine
construction firm and a Japanese animation studio. The latter, Toei
Animation Co., Ltd., sensationally labeled as the “Disney of the Orient,”
is owned by the media and entertainment titan Toei Company founded in
Japan.38
TAPI traces its conception back to 1986 when the Industrial
Training Corporation of Asia (ITCA) included a complementary graphic
arts program in its curriculum. According to Mynardo A. Macaraig, The Addams Family
the program was for Filipinos training to become migrant welders (H-B Production Co., 1992–93)
113

Johnny Bravo
(Van Partible, Hanna-Barbera
Cartoons, Cartoon Network,
1997–2004)
The Mask
(Dark Horse Entertainment, Film
Roman Productions, Sunbow
Productions, New Line Television,
Turner Program Services, 1995–97)
Tom & Jerry Kids Show
(Paul Tibbitt, Hanna-Barbera
Productions, 1990–94)
Cow and Chicken
(David Feiss, Hanna-Barbera
Cartoons, 1997–99)
114
LONG TAKE
and engineers in the Middle East.39 The Technical Education and Skills
Development Authority (TESDA) states in their webpage that the labor ITCA
initially supplied to Toei was paintwork,40 although this later expanded to
include other processes.
When the training was discontinued, the graphics component developed
into a joint venture between EEI Corp.—ITCA’s parent company, then known
as Engineering Equipment Inc.—and Toei,41 leading to the creation of EEI-
Toei Animation Corporation in 1993, with the former being the majority
shareholder.42 In 1998, however, TESDA notes Toei Animation Co. Ltd.
owned the majority, and in 2000, EEI sold the rest of the venture’s shares to
the Japanese studio, making EEI-Toei Animation a wholly-owned subsidiary
of Toei Animation Co., Ltd. and henceforth renamed Toei Animation Phils.,
Inc.43
Unlike the other captive studios, TAPI’s staff has been consistently
fewer, numbering close to only 200 in total. According to Macaraig, this
comes as a result of its management’s observation that rapid scaling pushed
the early studios in the country into precarity and eventual demise.44 TAPI
has nevertheless been copious with its animation production, having played a
part in the creation of many anime and some American titles, most of which
had gained popularity not only in Japan but across the globe. Of these were
The Transformers (1984–87), Crying Freeman (1988–92; 1994), Dragon Ball Z
(1989–96), Slam Dunk (1993–96), Ghost Sweeper Mikami (1993–94), One Piece
(1999–present), Ring ni Kakero (2004; 2006; 2010–11), and Powerpuff Girls Z
(2006–7), as well as originals or iterations of titles such as GeGeGe no Kitarô, Dr.
Slump, Sailor Moon, G.I. Joe, My Hero Academia, Digimon, and Pokémon, to name
a few. TAPI is also noted for its standing as the longest-running animation
studio in the country, which may be partly attributed to its adherence to
maintaining itself as a medium-sized enterprise.
Captivating Captivity
Inasmuch as the early domestic animation studios in the country were
involved in the making behind their clients’ and parent companies’ creations,
regardless of how minute the scope or negligible their parts were in the earlier
days, nor how common they were precluded from onscreen credits, they share
to an extent in the hegemonic success of the many fictive characters which have
become household names in the world of film animation. Sources indicate,
this has been largely made possible by the primary attraction they held in the
first place, which was inexpensive labor.45 A half-hour animation produced in
1995 cost at least $500,000 in the United States, whereas, in the Philippines,
the cost was around $130,000. According to Michael Switow, the country’s
offerings also tended to be competitively priced compared to most providers in
Asia.46 Coincidentally, Lent observes that the United States turned to overseas
prospects for labor that could pedal its animation industry primarily because
of high costs associated with hiring animators in its homeland, specifically the
disbursement of employee benefits which accounted for a 32 percent cost factor
on top of wages.47
Lent avers that countries such as Japan, Taiwan, and Korea thus became
the “first-level” offshore outlets of western animation production until the
price of labor also swelled in East Asia in the 1990s, prompting outsourcing
interest to gravitate toward Southeast Asia.48 Various sources maintain that
in the Philippines, an Americanized culture and, in effect, fluency in English
LONG TAKE
were frequently cited as appealing qualities that suited the needs of captive
enterprises,49 and according to Lent, this is in addition to tax incentives
that benefited employers.50 Stability in labor supply was likewise inviting,
warranted not only by an abundance of talent but also by the absence of labor
unions related to the occupation. Whereas artists in the United States have
been formally organizing strikes and lobbying grievances since the 1930s,51 a
labor union for Filipino animators did not form until very recently, with the
creation of the Philippine Animation Workers Association (PAWA) in 2019.
Biker Mice from Mars
(Rick Ungar, Brentwood Television Funnies,
Other Studio Contenders Worldwide Sports & Entertainment,
Inc., Marvel Productions, New World
Optifex, BAI, Fil-Cartoons, PASI, and TAPI could be considered Animation, Philippine Animation Studio,
among the forerunners of the domestic animation industry, but they were
1993–96; 2006–7)
by no means the only simultaneous or successive entities to have entered the
local animation scene. On the contrary, the credentials and contacts acquired
by former employees of disestablished production houses enabled some to set
up shops of their own.. Periodic interest from abroad more or less continued
to stimulate demand, hence the mushrooming of other studios, both foreign
and Filipino-owned, participating along the consistent vein of animation
services, the trend of which still pervades the industry to this day.
With some still extant as of this writing, among the other foreign outfits
to have wagered in the Philippines were Yoram Gross Animation, a studio Fantastic Four: The Animated Series
named after an Australian producer of children and family entertainment; (Philippine Animation Studio, Wang
Film Productions, Marvel Entertainment
contemporaries of Fil-Cartoons such as Los Angeles Animation, Island Group, Marvel Films, 1994–96)
Animation, and Moving Images International; Toon City Animation,
Inc., established by Colin Baker in 1993 which primarily serviced Disney;
Top Draw Animation Inc., founded in 1999 by Wayne Dearing, a former
executive of Fil-Cartoons and PASI; ImagineAsia and VirtualMagicAsia,
sister companies under Global Animation Holdings; Digital Eye Candy,
an arm of Kanbar Entertainment; Snipple Animation Studio, founded by
English Kaine Patel in 2010; and Xentrix Toons, Inc., formed in 2016 as a
subsidiary of an India-based studio.
Following Optifex, Filipino-owned production houses were also
established, albeit fewer. There was advertising-oriented Alcazaren Bros.,
X-Men: The Animated Series
began in 1989 and headed by Juan and Miguel Alcazaren; Top Peg (Marvel Entertainment Group, Saban
Animation & Creative Studio, Inc., started in 1996 by Grace Dimaranan who Entertainment, Graz Entertainment,
AKOM, 1992–97)
had previously worked for Optifex, Fil-Cartoons, and other studios; Holy
Cow Animation Inc., a 3D-specialist studio launched in 1999 by former
Burbank Animation employee Marlyn Montano; and Red Door Animation,
Inc., founded by four Filipino animation professionals in 2015.
Outsourcing and the Perfunctory Artist
The proliferation of studios in the country inevitably and cumulatively
correlated to a prodigious output of animation that cannot be overstated to
have become global if not Eurocentric in scale, with the productions Filipino
animators are involved in figuring anywhere from television films to visual Bob and Margaret
(David Fine and Alison Snowden,
effects to Hollywood features. According to a documentary by Lynette Snowden Fine Animation, Philippines
Buenafe, the propitious years of production in the 1990s thus gave the period Animation Studio, National Film
credence as being the nation’s “golden age of animation outsourcing,”52 while, Board of Canada, Nelvana,1993–2001)
for Michael Switow and Maria Ressa, the country itself at the time was vying
to become the “cartoon capital of the world.”53
115

Anthony Ant
(Funbag Animation Studios,
HiT Entertainment, 1999)
The Adventures of Tom Thumb &
Thumbelina
(Glenn Chaika, Miramax Films,
Hyperion Animation, 2002)
Johnny Test
(Scott Fellows, Warner
Bros. Animation, Cookie Jar
Entertainment, 2005–14)
Logo of Toei Animation Phils., Inc.,
a Philippine subsidiary of Toei Animation
116
LONG TAKE
Substantiation of these claims encompasses not only a measure of the
industry’s gross revenue and animation exports but also the sheer number of people
employed in discrete studios at the time, both of which attest to the widespread
public demand for animation as a source of entertainment, particularly one that is
marketed to a western audience. In developing and exercising skills that required
both haste and talent to produce such commodity adequately, the Filipino animator
learned to meet quotas in Taylorist fashion, imbibe foreign conventions and humor,
and accept artistic choices or standards as a given.
However, the work outsourced to the country is almost always not the most
creative component. A case study by Feichin Ted Tschang and Andrea Goldstein
on the major existing animation studios in the country as of 2004 shows that the
assignments the participating studios received from clients were more or less well
into the production stage; development, preproduction, and postproduction were
primarily made and done earlier at the hands of the project owners.54 This finding
is consistent with the cases of Optifex, BAI, Fil-Cartoons, PASI, and TAPI, whose
credits, the first and second having worked on purely traditional animation, and the
rest, both on traditional and digital formats, similarly consisted of labor-intensive
aspects such as tracing, painting, cleanup, inbetweening, and camerawork, or what
Tschang and Goldstein have termed as mechanistic, as opposed to creative, work.
Where there are instances of original animation locally developed by outsourcing
studios, such as Fil-Cartoons’ Child Soldiers (1997) and Swamp and Tad in ‘Mission
Imfrogable’ (1997) as well as Top Pegs’ Tutubi Patrol (Dragonfly Patrol, 2003), such
productions have been few and far between.
According to Tschang and Goldstein, the demarcation between the
outsourced and the in-house is determined by the project owners, while the
outsourcing process itself abided by a vertical, regimented workflow chiefly
contingent to what has been identified as coordination and codification—the
former assuming the back-and-forth regulation syncing activity into order, and the
latter taking the form of specifications or “bibles” packaged abroad often including
the script, storyboard, and, in the traditional era, exposure sheets.55 Such rigidity
leaves little opportunity for feedback on the part of the servicing studios, whose
designation is limited to interpreting the specifications to the best of their abilities.
The bone of contention, therefore, is that, following the argument of Lent, the
role of the conforming Filipino artist within the domestic animation industry has
become perfunctory.56
Captive Proclivities
On the issue arising from foreign animation’s place in Southeast Asia in
general, Lent recognizes there are both negative and positive sides to the matter.
Lifting from his rhetoric, on the one hand, it can be argued that animation
production in the Philippines has been primarily undergirded by labor exploitation.
Almost all studios in the country have privileged foreign production to the
detriment of the development of local narratives. They are headed mainly by
expatriates or owned by overseas entities who possess the inalienable rights to
final creative decisions. On the other hand, it can be averred that there would have
been no impetus for forming a local industry without the entry and assimilation of
foreign involvement.57
Regardless of either view, the trajectory of animation’s development in the
country as a commodity undeniably signifies dependence on, if not subservience
to, the west, as manifested in two imbricating layers: culturally, in terms of the
ubiquity and consumption of foreign animation vis-à-vis the marginalization of
Dragon Ball Z
(Toei Animation Japan, 1989–96)
Slam Dunk
(Toei Animation Japan, 1993–96)
Powerpuff Girls Z
(Toei Animation Japan, 2006–7)
G.I. Joe: A Real American Hero
(Sunbow Productions, Marvel
Productions, DIC Enterprises,
1983–86; 1989–92)
Digimon Adventure tri. Part 1: Reunion
(Keitaro Motonaga,
Toei Animation Japan, 2015)
LONG TAKE
Filipino narratives, and materially, in terms of the domestic industry’s economic
subjugation by foreign control. What has ensued then is an inability for the industry
to elevate and for the local market to recognize its homegrown narratives beyond the
vocabulary of western animation, which in turn has resulted in the relatively anemic
reception of indigenized works, notably full-length films.
In the words of Lent and Hassan Muthalib, based on a comment made
by Bill Dennis who was a former general manager of Fil-Cartoons and ex-vice
president at Disney, “indigenous animation did not take off because Filipinos are
too partial to American animation.”58 Therefore, the domestic industry is ironically
engaged in animated trade while succumbing to a catatonic state induced by a
disconnect with local patronage.
The historical dimension of Philippine animation as an industry thus
exemplifies and affirms the nation’s circumscription to a long-wrought colonial
framework. In the first place, domestic animation’s utility in television advertising
operated within the greater industrial and cultural structures introduced and
tempered by the American occupation. In the second place, the ingress of
foreign studios to capitalize on low labor costs and expand business, as well as
the establishment of Filipino-owned entities, which have likewise promoted the
outsourcing of animation to foreign interests, also articulates the colonial legacy
that has ossified in the national subconscious. This analysis coincides with Roland
Tolentino’s examination that Philippine animation emanated from print capitalism
and service businesses—modalities of the early American capitalism that sought
to reengineer the country as its colony.59 As an industry, however, the commercial
parties laying claim to domestic animation have since variegated, represented by
asserting multinational companies originating in Australia, Malaysia, Japan, the
United Kingdom, and India.
Captivity and Nationalism
The fomenting of Philippine animation’s captivity under a plurality of foreign
interests resulted from a globalized network galvanized by international trade.
The country’s baptismal as a site for animation production, or a “factory,” to use
Lent’s term, and the outsourcing magnetism it acquired that has since weakened,
consummated the capitalistic machinations of private enterprises bent toward
maximizing wealth.
While there have been cases of animation production on the commercial
level that run contrary to the trend of outsourcing, such movement has neither
been sustained nor sustainable, with much of the work ending up deferred or
shelved indefinitely due to lack of funding, absence of ready or accepting markets,
or both. Indeed, some early major studios like Optifex and PASI had considered,
if not attempted, to develop homegrown animation. However, the lack of financial
incentives disinclines most studios from lingering in such terrain, hence preserving
outsourcing as the superior modus operandi. Consequently, wholly Filipino-owned
studios mimicked captive conditions in order to survive.
Further legitimization of captivity is also articulated beyond the business
sphere, particularly in the state’s economic planning and approach toward animation.
Early reports published by agencies such as Tholons, Pearl2, and the Department
of Trade and Industry, as well as the rhetoric issued from bodies such as the
Philippine Board of Investments and the Animation Council of the Philippines
(ACPI), banked on local animation as a service apparatus, laminating its export
status and emphasizing the country’s global vantage as an animation outsourcing
117
 LONG TAKE
hub. Concomitantly, the form has since been widely categorized and associated
with the business process outsourcing sector rather than, or as much as, the
creative sector. The ostensible rationalization behind this championing, figured
by Lent, is that outsourcing will eventually attract foreign investment for local
narratives.60
Such legitimization of animation as an export product uncannily parallels
an analysis by David Frederic Camroux on how the state’s cooptation and
farming of overseas Filipino workers have been reconfigured as a vector for
economic growth, extolling Filipino expatriates as the “new national heroes”
in light of the enormous sum of remittances they feed to the state.61 As how
the State-to state-sanctioned sending of emigrants—a “weakness in Filipino
national development”—has been “reformulated as an expression of Filipino
strength,” so, too, has the captivity of Philippine animation been hoisted by the
industry as a banner for nationalism, branded as an expression of pride, and
utilized as a source of financial inflow at the expense of a paucity in indigenized
or indigenous works.
Counterflows
The propulsion of homegrown animation within the industry, meanwhile,
has only been a fairly recent phenomenon, with developments such as the
flagship animation festival Animahenasyon inaugurated by ACPI in 2007, the
sprouting of boutique outfits the likes of Rocketsheep Studios in 2000 and
Tuldok Animation Studio in 2005, and the formation of animation departments
attached to local media conglomerates such as ABS-CBN, arousing a
decolonizing locomotion of sorts. However, the preponderance of indigenous
animation, away from the creative distillations of the captive studio system, is
arguably still located predominantly in the peripheries of the industry, orbiting
in what Nick Deocampo has described as alternative, or what Michael Kho Lim
has designated as independent, cinemas. Within these modes of production
where commerciality is not as much, if not just as much, an agenda as artistic
ferment, expression, or activism, Filipino animated films have also found a
foothold.
For instance, an early outcome of a proximate breakaway from captivity
was Nelson Caliguia Sr.’s Livingroom Productions, which Caliguia established
while working as an animator in Fil-Cartoons. Literally, the studio operated on a
makeshift capacity in the living room of Caliguia’s house and involved his family
members in its productions. The studio most notably bore the animated short
Mokmok (1995), which features a titular mosquito and its cronies who attempt
to carry out a mission of spreading dengue in an impoverished barangay. Despite
being fraught with budgetary constraints, the film opted for a commercially
unviable story nevertheless germane to the realities of Filipinos.
The conditions of Livingroom reflect the ongoing financial challenges
that plague the studio-based production of local animated films, especially
long-forms, so much so that straightened conditions are instanced even in
milestone works. Gerry Garcia’s Ang Panday (1986), the first Filipino animated
TV series, shot using an improvised camera mounted on wooden constructions,
RPG Metanoia (2010), the country’s first 3D full-length film, created by a lean
team of 26 animators; and Saving Sally (2016), Avid Liongoren’s first feature
which debuted after taking 12 years to finish primarily due to lack of funding,
are only a few of the Filipino animated films that had to contend with wanting
circumstances.
118
Child Soldiers
( John Rice, Fil-Cartoons, Inc., 1997)
Mokmok (1995)
A short film produced by the home-
based studio Livingroom Productions
established by Nelson B. Caliguia, Sr.
The first Filipino animated television series,
Ang Panday (Gerry Garcia, 1986)
RPG Metanoia
(Luis Suarez, Star Cinema, Ambient Media,
Thaumatrope Animation Production, 2010)
Saving Sally
(Avid Liongoren, Rocketsheep Studios, Mandrake
Films, KB Studios, Alchemedia Productions, 2016)
LONG TAKE
With shorts, the default mode of production has almost always
been artisanal rather than assembly-line, with works emanating from
students now conceivably occupying the majority of the country’s
animation filmography. On the other hand, non-student films are
also often produced and completed only by virtue of their filmmakers’
resourcefulness in the face of financial incapability. Ellen Ramos’ Doon
sa Kabila ng Bulkan (The Other Side of the Volcano, 1997), the first
Filipino film to compete in Annecy International Animation Film
Festival, Dange Desembrana and Emmanuel Dadivas's Anak Maynila
(Child of Manila, 1993), and Fruto Corre and Dadivas’s The Criminal
(1984), are examples of such films relying on improvised creative Doon sa Kabila ng Bulkan (The Other Side of the Volcano,
Ellen Ramos, PETA-BFI, 1997)—the first Filipino film to
methods, or what Molinia Anne Velasco-Wansom has contextualized compete in the Annecy Festival
as the aesthetics of “making do.”62
More than digressions from the conveyor belt system of
animation production, what these counterflows signify is a struggle
to imagine Filipino identities that are distant, if not unfettered,
from captive parameters, not unlike the Philippines’ struggle to
gain independence from colonial sovereignty. It is uncertain if the
Philippine animation industry’s surmounting of captivity will also
occasion the nation’s homegrown animation to burgeon to the same
extent as, or even greater than, Filipino live-action cinema. For now,
there is only an incipience, a modicum of works whose counterflows
could only wax or wane in the histories to come.
Anak Maynila (Child of Manila,
Dange Desembrana and Emmanuel Dadivas, 1993)
The Criminal
(Nonoy Dadivas and Fruto Corre, Media Concepts, Inc., 1984)
Roland Cartagena finished his Bachelor of Arts in Film at the University of the Philippines Film Institute. His animated short
Flush (2020) was screened in local film festivals, while his other work, After Hours (2019), was featured in Film Geographies 2022.
119
 LONG TAKE
Endnotes
1 Ilan Oshri, Offshoring Strategies: Evolving Captive Center Models
(Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2011), 1.
2 Paulin Turner Strong, Captive Selves, Captivating Others (Boulder: Westview
Press, 1999), 2-3, 19-20.
3 Gwendolyn Audrey Foster, Captive Bodies: Postcolonial Subjectivity in Cinema
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 3, 6.
4 Strong, 23-32.
5 Navarro as an animation pioneer taken from Joel David, Lynn Pareja,
and Michael Kho Lim, “Animation,” in Cultural Center of the Philippines
Encyclopedia of Philippine Art, 2017, epa.culturalcenter.gov.ph/4/21/1060/.
6 John A. Lent, “Comic Art in the Philippines,” Philippine Studies 46, no.
2 (1998): 246. See also Nick Deocampo, Short Film: Emergence of a New
Philippine Cinema (Manila: Communication Foundation for Asia, 1985), 16.
7 Cynthia Roxas and Joaquin Arevalo, A History of Komiks of the Philippines
and Other Countries (Quezon: Islas Filipinas Publishing Company, 1985), 73.
8 Nonoy Marcelo, “Malabon, Drawing Board to Our Country’s First Full-
length Animation,” in Huling Ptyk: Da Art of Nonoy Marcelo, eds. Pandy
Aviado and Sylvia Mayuga (Pasig: Anvil Publishing Inc., 2005), 81.
9 There are differing claims on the length of Juan Tamad—two, three, and
six minutes. See Deocampo, 90; Marcelo, “Malabon, Drawing Board to
Our Country’s First Full-length Animation,” 81; David, Pareja, and Lim,
“Animation.”
10 Deocampo, 90.
11 Ibid. See also Lent, “Comic Art in the Philippines,” 246.
12 For this and succeeding sections, years in parentheses indicate the title’s
running period or release, not the year of studio’s involvement. Where a title
has no accompanying year, the specific film iteration is unidentified.
13 Nelson B. Caliguia Sr., interview by Roland Cartagena, Video Interview,
June 22, 2022, transcript courtesy of Roland Cartagena, quoted with
permission.
14 Giannalberto Bendazzi, Animation: A World History, Volume III: Contemporary
Times (Florida: CRC Press, 2016), 287.
15 Dan Torre and Lienors Torre, Australian Animation: An International History
(London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 181-82.
16 Achiu So, interview by Roland Cartagena, Chat Interview, July 14, 2022,
transcript courtesy of Roland Cartagena, quoted with permission.
17 Caliguia Sr., Video Interview, June 22, 2022.
18 Torre and Torre, 181-82.
19 Giannalberto Bendazzi, Cartoons: One Hundred Years of Cinema Animation
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994), 409-10.
20 Lent, “Comic Art in the Philippines,” 247.
21 Torre and Torre, 182.
22 Chito S. Roño, interview by Roland Cartagena, Chat Interview, June 27-28,
2022, transcript courtesy of Roland Cartagena, quoted with permission.
23 Benji Agoncillo, interview by Roland Cartagena, Chat Interview, June 20-
23, 2022, transcript courtesy of Roland Cartagena, quoted with permission.
24 John A. Lent, “Animation in Southeast Asia,” Media Asia 26, no. 4 (1999):
193; John A. Lent, “The ‘Sleeper’ Status of Southeast Asian Animation,”
Jurnal Komunikasi: Malaysian Journal of Communication 20 (2004): 192;
Torre and Torre, 182.
25 According to Torre and Torre, Burbank was revived in 1991 under a new
management and was renamed as Burbank Animation Studio. See Torre and
Torre, 182-83.
26 Agoncillo, Chat Interview, June 20-23, 2022.
27 “Fil-Cartoons promotional video,” Archive.org Video, 8:44, televised in
1995, uploaded by “aengcarta,” July 1, 2022, archive.org/details/fil-cartoons-
promotional-video.
28 Margaret Parkes, interview with Dan Torre and Lienors Torre, April 24,
2004, quoted in Torre and Torre, 175.
29 Jonathan Karp, “Get It? Filipino Animators Bring Cultural Edge to Cartoon
Work,” Far Eastern Economic Review, June 22, 1995, 88-89.
30 Lent, “Animation in Southeast Asia,” 193.
31 Agoncillo, Chat Interview, June 20-23, 2022.
32 Carol Espiritu, “Animators Drawn to Region,” Variety, June 17-23, 1996, 46.
33 Don Groves, “Filipino Animator Retoons for New Role,” Variety, July 12-18,
1999, 35.
34 Christopher Harz, “Playing With PASI: A Studio with Heart,” Animation
Magazine, April 2002, 34.
35 Ibid. See also Tessa Jazmines, “PASI Initiates Artists Revenue Sharing,”
Variety, November 6-12, 2000, 65; Tessa Jazmines, “PASI Retooning
Animates Philippine Studio After Years in Doldrums,” Variety, August 7-13,
2000, 30.
120
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36 Harz, “Playing With PASI: A Studio with Heart,” 34.
37 Tessa Jazmines, “PAS Taps Home Market for Toons Amid Gloom,”
Variety, January 7-13, 2002, 43; Karp, “Get It? Filipino Animators Bring
Cultural Edge to Cartoon Work,” 88-89.
38 Technical Education and Skills Development Authority, “Toei
Animation Phils., Inc.” TESDA, February 25, 2017, accessed on
tesdatrainingcourses.com/toei-animation-phils-inc.html.
39 Mynardo A. Macaraig, “An Animated Market,” Asia, Inc., February
1994, 72.
40 Technical Education and Skills Development Authority, “Toei
Animation Phils., Inc.”
41 Macaraig, “An Animated Market,” 72.
42 Technical Education and Skills Development Authority, “Toei
Animation Phils., Inc.” See also “TOEI Animation Philippines 20
Years,” YouTube Video, 6:12, uploaded by “Pochology,” November 30,
2010, youtube.com/watch?v=q23KYyMdncw.
43 Ibid.
44 Macaraig, “An Animated Market,” 72.
45 “A Profile on Film Animation,” Bureau of Export Trade Promotion, April
1989, 13; Nerilyn Tenorio, “Filipinos Spin Cartoon Fantasies,” Santa
Ana Orange County Register, January 2, 1993, 86; Espiritu, “Animators
Drawn to Region,” 46; Karp, “Get It? Filipino Animators Bring Cultural
Edge to Cartoon Work,” 88; Jazmines, “PAS Taps Home Market for
Toons Amid Gloom,” 43.
46 Michael Switow, “Philippines Makes Bid to Become Cartoon Capital,”
Syracuse Herald Journal, August 16, 1995, 205.
47 John A. Lent, “The Animation Industry and Its Offshore Factories,” in
Global Productions: Labor in the Making of the “Information Society,” eds.
Gerald Sussman and John A. Lent (New Jersey: Hampton Press, Inc.,
1998), 240.
48 Lent, “Animation in Southeast Asia,” 193; Lent, “The ‘Sleeper’ Status of
Southeast Asian Animation,” 195.
49 “A Profile on Film Animation,” 13; Tenorio, “Filipinos Spin Cartoon
Fantasies,” 86; Switow, “Philippines Makes Bid to Become Cartoon
Capital,” 205; Espiritu, “Animators Drawn to Region,” 46; Karp, “Get
It? Filipino Animators Bring Cultural Edge to Cartoon Work,” 88;
Jazmines, “PAS Taps Home Market for Toons Amid Gloom,” 43.
50 Lent, “Animation in Southeast Asia,” 193; Lent, “The ‘Sleeper’ Status of
Southeast Asian Animation,” 191.
51 Lent, “The Animation Industry and Its Offshore Factories,” 242.
52 Lynnette Buenafe, dir. From Lines to Life, “An Introduction to
Animation,” televised in 2010 on Knowledge Channel.
53 Switow, “Philippines Makes Bid to Become Cartoon Capital,” 205;
Maria Ressa, “Filipino Animators in ‘Toon’ with the Times,” CNN,
October 14, 1995.
54 Feichin Ted Tschang and Andrea Goldstein, “The Outsourcing
of ‘Creative’ Work and the Limits of Capability: The Case of the
Philippines’ Animation Industry,” IEEE Transactions on Engineering
Management 57, no. 1 (2010): 142.
55 Tschang and Goldstein, “The Outsourcing of ‘Creative’ Work and
the Limits of Capability: The Case of the Philippines’ Animation
Industry,”133, 141. See also Feichin Ted Tschang and Andrea Goldstein,
“Production and Political Economy in the Animation Industry: Why
Insourcing and Outsourcing Occur” (paper presented at the DRUID
Summer Conference, Elsinore, Denmark, June 14-16, 2004): 16.
56 Lent, “Animation in Southeast Asia,” 193.
57 Ibid.
58 Bill Dennis, quoted in John A. Lent and Hassan Muthalib, “The
Philippines,” in Bendazzi, Animation: A World History, Volume III:
Contemporary Times, 288.
59 Rolando B. Tolentino, “Animating the Nation: Animation and
Development in the Philippines,” in Animation in Asia and the Pacific, ed.
John A. Lent (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), 169.
60 Lent, “The Animation Industry and Its Offshore Factories,” 249.
61 David Frederic Camroux, “Nationalizing Transnationalism? The
Philippine State and the Filipino Diaspora,” Sciences Po publications
(2008): 6-10.
62 Molinia Anne Velasco-Wansom, “The Art of Making Do: Exploring the
Aesthetics of Filipino Short Film Animation,” Journal of English Studies
and Comparative Literature 17 (2018): 26-27.
121
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Title cards bearing the Rosas Productions Logo in Florinda (1973). Images are
author's screenshot of the films
A
fter more than six decades of an illustrious
career that spanned the silver screen, radio,
and later the small screen, the scholarship
written about the Queen of Philippine Movies, Susan Roces,
has mostly centered around her films,1 her star image,2 and her
enduring fandom.3 Her work behind-the-scenes as a producer,
both for her Rosas Productions and later for her husband’s
FPJ Productions, is little explored. While she never shied away
from discussing the topic at length in interviews,4 no in-depth
reportage nor a dedicated exploration of that aspect of her
career has been available to the public. If at all, it has only ever
been treated as an interesting angle for film promotion.5
This glaring gap in the production of popular and
academic knowledge about Roces’s producing activities might
have been a consequence of her overwhelming star image,
that of the postwar Babaeng Pilipina Ideal—a vision of the
Filipino woman whose virtue lay in her deeply Christian
morality and her active civic co-participation with her man not
as independent of but always in partnership with him.6 The
ideological pull of this narrative—of the ideal Filipino woman
as an equal co-partner, defined as much by her own merits as
by her relationships—and the extent to which Roces lived this
out in her own married life with “Da King” Fernando Poe, Jr.,
as business partners in running FPJ Productions and its many
sub-outlets, obfuscated the individual creative and financial
agency and labor that went into her work because they were
mostly seen as in-tandem with or in support of her husband.
This point is made stark when considering the star image
and popular career narrative of her rival movie queen Amalia
Fuentes, whose prolific AM Productions was, by contrast,
just as central to the latter’s myth of fierce independence and
singular feminine power7 as was her incomparable beauty.
This article, therefore, is an effort to rediscover other
aspects of the legacy of the First Lady of Philippine Cinema
122
Title card bearing Susan Roces’ producer credits in Maligno (1977)
by resurfacing and reevaluating her work as a creative producer
and businesswoman behind Rosas Productions and FPJ
Productions.
The Story and Filmography of Rosas Productions
By the eve of 1968 and at 26 years old, Susan Roces
had been the most sought-after freelance star in the country for
the past three years.8 Since completing her eight-year contract9
with Sampaguita Pictures in February of 1965, only four other
stars—Fernando Poe, Jr. (FPJ), Joseph Estrada, Amalia Fuentes,
and Romeo Vasquez—had been in as much demand as she was
to appear in the then-burgeoning pool of independent film
productions that sprouted at the end of the classical studio era.
Of the lot, all four had already ventured into producing,10 with
Poe the earliest to make the transition to star-producer, having
put up FPJ Productions in 1962 and released Batang Maynila
in the same year through Tagalog Ilang-Ilang Productions,11
a production company that had earlier acquired Poe’s services
as freelance star and whose owner, Atty. Espiridion Laxa, had
become a close family friend according to Elizabeth Poe in
an interview with Jeffrey Sonora.12 Indeed, it was Poe who
was the first independent producer to secure Roces’s services
fresh off Sampaguita for a film that teamed both the reigning
King and Queen of Philippine Movies for the first time, which
resulted in a then-record breaking first day gross of P36,000 for
a Filipino film, a record that remained unbroken until at least
1966.13
The business relationship and friendship between
Filipino moviedom’s top two draws that began in 1965 with
Ang Daigdig Ko’y Ikaw soon became a real-life romance. In
1968, after completing thirty-three top- and high-grossing
films in three years, of which four films co-starred Poe and
a further five were produced by the latter’s subsidiary film
Film ads for Kulay Rosas ang Pag-ibig, Tanging Ikaw!..., and
To Susan with Love, all released in 1968. All movie posters
used with permission by archivist
LONG TAKE
outfits, Roces believed it was time to take on the task and risk of film
producing herself. Just as Poe had done in the early days of his producing
venture, Roces sought her partner’s help in putting up Rosas Productions,14
so named after a variation of the screen surname she had built up as
her personal brand, and made use of the logistics and distribution
infrastructures already in place at the Phil-Am Film Compound, the
production and post-production facility FPJ rented at the time and which
later came to be known as the FPJ Studios, to mount her projects.15
The maiden year of Rosas Productions saw the release of three
outings—each in the vein of Roces’s most successful films from both her
contract and freelance days. It would not come as a surprise then that all
three films from this first batch of offerings starred Roces herself in roles
and genres that her massive audience would have been familiar with seeing
her act in and had clamored for more.
Kulay Rosas ang Pag-ibig, which co-starred Ramil Rodriguez, with
whom she acted opposite for the first time during her final year in contract
with Sampaguita Pictures, was a light romance drama released on May 29,
1968. While no official synopsis of the film has been found, the remaining
ephemera of this production, such as stills published in Susan Roces
Blogspot, a web blog dedicated to chronicling Roces’s film career,16 suggest
that its story and themes were similar to her earlier hits, like Portrait of My
Love (1965) and To Love Again (1967), both of which co-starred frequent
onscreen partner Eddie Gutierrez and were produced by her former mother
studio. Shot in only twelve days and released in first-class venues such as
the Ever Theatre after fifteen days of post-production, Kulay Rosas ang Pag-
ibig was declared a huge hit. Moreover, as Roces did for Gutierrez’s career
in their earlier team-ups, this proved to be Rodriguez’s biggest film at the
time, which moved the entertainment press to consider Roces a starmaker
in her own right for raising the profile of her co-star with her very first
outing as an independent producer.17
Tanging Ikaw!..., Roces’s second producing effort and one of four
films co-starring Poe that year, was released on August 4, 1968. Essentially
a variation on Ang Daigdig Ko’y Ikaw, the action rom-com saw Roces and
Poe Jr. in a reversal of roles. This time, Poe played a wealthy filmmaker who
wanted to learn more about the plight of the poor for his next film and
decided to live under pretense in a slum community, where he befriended
and later fell in love with an enterprising, tough-talking street urchin,
played by Roces. The film was such a hit that Roces and Poe would revisit
and rework this premise—of an odd couple that met under false pretenses,
particularly about the socio-economic background of one of the pair, and
would eventually fall in love in the end, differences be damned—in at least
two more films after.18
To Susan with Love, the final film released during Rosas
Production’s first banner year, was an anthological adaptation of four stories
that were featured in the radio program of the same name hosted by Roces
for broadcast giant DZRH. Released as the outfit’s Christmas offering
on December 07, 1968, it co-starred four of Roces’s previous leading men
in episodes that spanned different genres: Ramil Rodriguez as a ghost
who mistook a writer/Roces as his lost love in a variation of The Ghost and
Mrs. Muir (1947); Eddie Mesa as a playboy pop singer who figured in a
chance encounter with a country lass/Roces visiting the city for the first
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time; Joseph Estrada as a jeepney driver who filed suit after
the jeep he sent in for repairs was accidentally destroyed by
the talyer (automobile repair shop) owner’s tinkering tomboy
of a niece/Roces; and Poe as a prince betrothed to a woman
he has yet to meet and so disguised himself as a commoner to
find true love for himself, only to encounter another royalty-
in-disguise/Roces.19 The film was a box office hit despite or
perhaps because of rumors during the film’s production that the
King and Queen were on rocky ground and headed toward a
breakup. The frenzy surrounding the couple hit an even higher
pitch when a little more than a week after the film’s release,
on December 16, news broke of Roces and Poe’s elopement
and surprise civil wedding in Valenzuela according to a
contemporary report by Baby K. Jimenez.20 Their Christmas
Day church wedding, dubbed “The Wedding of the Year,”
was opened to the public,21 which only furthered the feverish
appetite for not just this film but also for a re-release of Ang
Daigdig Ko’y Ikaw early the following year, this time with the
full-color coverage of the real-life wedding included as a special
attraction.22
As Roces would later state, she considered herself
effectively semi-retired from the acting profession from the
beginning of her marriage,23 which would explain periods
of occasional lulls and sudden outpourings of onscreen
productivity in the years that followed.
Rosas Productions officially became a part of the
larger film production ecosystem under FPJ Productions
at the start of 1969. Following the union of its proprietors,
the former independent outfit joined the latter’s other sub-
outlets—D’Lanor Productions, which, according to Jimenez,
specialized in child-friendly fare24 such as comedies, fantasies,
and superhero films,25 and JAFERE Productions, so named
after the initials of all the Poe siblings—Jenny, Andy, Freddie,
Elizabeth, Ronald, and Evangeline—and which served as the
producing outfit for the other members of the Poe family.26
With the main brand of FPJ Productions in charge of action
films and the larger-scaled projects27 that mainly starred Poe
himself, Rosas Productions differentiated itself by filling the
space for female-driven stories centered on women’s issues
within this branding system.28
True to her statement, Roces kept a lower profile in
the first three years of her marriage, only starring in two films
in 1969 and one film each in 1970 and 1971, all produced
for her by FPJ Productions. The sudden scarcity of new films
starring Roces at the height of her popularity made these
four films even bigger hits, effectively turning each one into a
considerable film event.
After the three-year lull, Roces revived Rosas
Productions into its most productive year in 1972, when she
produced four film projects—three vehicles for other actresses
and only one starring herself.
124
Film ad for the re-issued Ang Daigdig Ko’y
Ikaw (1965, re-released in 1969) featuring
the inclusion of Roces and Poe, Jr.’s wedding
coverage
Rosas Productions opened 1972 with a New Year
release for Dearest, Forever, a romance drama that starred
Roces’s younger sister Rosemarie Sonora and the latter’s
onscreen love team partner-turned-real life husband, Ricky
Belmonte. Like her older sister before her, Sonora was launched
into stardom by Sampaguita Pictures as part of a batch of
younger stars dubbed Stars ’66 meant to fill the void left by the
exodus of the studio’s superstars in the mid-60s, such as Romeo
Vasquez, Amalia Fuentes, and Roces herself, as chronicled in
a post on Simon Santos’ online treasure trove for Philippine
Cinema history, the Video 48 web blog.29 Meanwhile,
according to a contemporary account by Teena Cruzet,
Belmonte was a discovery of Poe, who made him Roces’s
co-star in D’Lanor’s Si Siyanang at ang 7 Tsikiting (1966),
where Roces played the titular Siyanang,.30 After Sonora and
Belmonte emerged as one of Sampaguita Pictures’ hottest
young love teams by the close of the 1960s and eventually tied
the knot in 1971 when their contracts with the studio expired,31
Roces conceived of Dearest, Forever as a film project for her
sister much in the same way that the re-release Ang Daigdig
Ko’y Ikaw was for Poe and herself. She recognized how much
of an event her sister’s nuptials were and included the full-color
wedding coverage as a special attraction to the film, the first
outing of Sonora and Belmonte as a married couple.
Such was the success of the previous film that Rosas
Productions released another romance drama that co-starred
Sonora and Belmonte in the second quarter of the year, on
May 05, 1972. Love Eternal, a film adaptation of Rio Oreta’s
Sweethearts komiks serial of the same name, echoed the
themes of an earlier Sonora-Belmonte hit, Life Everlasting
(1971). The latter, similarly an adaptation of a Pinoy komiks
serial by Jim M. Fernandez, was also a huge moneymaker for
Sampaguita Pictures upon its release and featured the popular
LONG TAKE
love triangle of Sonora, Belmonte, and Pepito Rodriguez,
younger brother to Ramil and another member of the studio’s
Stars ‘66.32
For the year’s second half, Roces produced two
more films, both adaptations of popular komiks serials.
On September 15, 1972, Rosas Productions came out with
Bilangguang Puso, which teamed Roces for the first time with
Dante Rivero, who would be one of her constant leading men
in later Rosas-released vehicles. While no official synopsis for
it has been found, the film prints for this adaptation of Marty
Aragon’s Lagim komiks story have recently been scanned and
digitized by the FPJ Productions Film Archives, making the
film’s rediscovery a distinct possibility.
Rosas Production’s last film for 1972, Isinilang Ko ang
Anak ng Ibang Babae, was released as the outfit’s Christmas
Day offering. An adaptation of Elena M. Patron’s popular
Pioneer and Aliwan komiks serials, the film starred Rivero with Film ads for Dearest Forever and Love Eternal, both released in 1972
and starred Rosemarie Sonora and Ricky Belmonte
Boots Anson-Roa and Pilar Pilapil. While no official synopsis
for the film has been found, Roces would revisit this female-led
surrogacy drama in a variation penned by the same author a
couple of years after this release.
Roces had already earned a FAMAS nomination for
To Susan With Love (1968), a film she produced and starred in
during Rosas Production’s debut year. These two films, released
near the end of 1972, would also earn Best Actress nominations
for Roces in Bilangguang Puso and Pilar Pilapil in Isinilang Ko
ang Anak ng Ibang Babae, with the trophy going to two winners
for that year, one of whom was Boots Anson-Roa, who won
not for her film under Rosas but for JE Productions’ Tatay na si
Erap (1972).33
While the tail-end of 1968 marked the beginning of
Roces and Poe’s marriage, which translated to Roces’s transition
into semi-retirement as an actress, it also signaled the start
of her direct and official involvement in the running not just
of her outfit but of the entire FPJ Productions’ moviemaking
ecosystem. Roces served as the company’s treasurer and vice
president for finance, which meant overseeing not just the
accounting of film earnings across each production outfit
but also the budgeting for each project and release, as well as
setting the general financial direction of the company, including
decisions regarding infrastructural investments as well as
property acquisitions.34 She juggled all these behind-the-scenes
duties with her occasional star outings in films and her roles as
a homemaker and mother.
From this context of her then-diversifying business
and personal responsibilities within and, more importantly,
beyond her outfit, we proceed to discuss the remaining output
Film ads for Bilangguang Puso and Isinilang Ko ang Anak ng Ibang
of Rosas Productions.
Babae, both released in the latter half of 1972
In 1973, after her most prolific year yet as an
independent film producer, Rosas Productions rode the
125

Film ad for Florinda (1973)
Film ads for Patayin Mo sa Sindak si Barbara and
Dalawa ang Nagdalantao sa Akin, both released
in 1974
126
LONG TAKE
momentum with the release of Florinda on February 01. Adapted
from Rico Bello Omagap’s Tagalog Klasiks komiks serial, the film
marked a new phase in Roces’s acting career, which confronted the
more mature and horror-adjacent elements only previously hinted at
in her star image. Given the opportunity to explore the darker aspects
of the repression, vulnerability, and ontological ambiguity inherent in
the Babaeng Pilipina ideal, this gothic romance drama started what has
come to be known as Roces’s signature horror film cycle, and for which
her outfit has since been most associated with.
While the film was a huge hit among Roces’s massive
audience,35 Florinda proved to be Rosas Productions’ sole outing in
1973. She then starred in two more films released later that same year
from FPJ Productions, and it would not be until the latter half of the
following year that her production outfit would come out with two new
releases, both of which starred Roces herself.
Patayin Mo sa Sindak si Barbara, released on August 16, 1974,
served as her sophomore effort in the horror genre. No longer bound by
Florinda’s more suggestive and restrained approach to horror, this slow-
burn descent into dread and the abject horrors of female jealousy and
sibling rivalry, conceived by celebrated filmmaker Celso “The Kid” Ad.
Castillo, has proven to be one of Roces’s most enduring contributions
to genre filmmaking in the country. The film eventually earned Roces
another FAMAS nomination as Best Actress, the third film from Rosas
Productions that brought on this recognition.36 Such has been the film’s
legacy in the popular imagination of Filipino horror that this film has
been remade thrice. The first, with the title shortened to Patayin sa
Sindak si Barbara, was released in 1995. It was followed by a limited
series adaptation with the same shortened name in 2008 that starred
Roces as the mother of the titular Barbara, a role created especially for
her. The most recent remake is Barbara Reimagined (2019), a reworking
of the source material by the original filmmaker’s son, Christopher Ad.
Castillo.
That monster hit was followed by Rosas Productions revisiting
another Elena M. Patron surrogacy drama, Dalawa ang Nagdalantao
sa Akin, released on November 8, 1974. While it shared the attention-
grabbing title scheme of the earlier Isinilang, as well as the central
premise of the then-novel phenomenon of surrogacy, this film delved
deeper into the underlying theme of the conflict between medical
science advancement and Filipino spirituality involved in cases of fetal
transplantation. Roces and Anson-Roa co-starred as lifelong friends,
Lourdes and Eufemia, faced with a difficult medical situation after
Eufemia/Anson-Roa had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain
tumor that grew at such a rate that she might not survive long enough
to carry her pregnancy to full-term. Out of empathy, Lourdes/Roces
agreed to the medically precarious procedure of fetal transplantation
that would allow her friend’s child to grow in her womb and eventually
be delivered to full term, but not without having sacrificed her health
with the series of medications and medical procedures required of
her. The twists of fate that followed both women, which included the
miraculous shrinkage of Eufemia’s tumor and the gradual decline of
Lourdes’ health as they navigated the tension-filled task of co-parenting
the child that they now shared, provided the meat and bones of the
LONG TAKE
film’s thoughtful exploration of female friendship and the complications
behind non-traditional family setups. While a big hit during its initial
release, Dalawa has since been overlooked and forgotten because it has been
difficult to find a copy to review and reevaluate. Fortunately, FPJ Productions
has recently completed its restoration of the film, hopefully leading to its
rediscovery by a new generation of fans, scholars, and film enthusiasts and its
eventual critical reappraisal.
This by-then rare quarterly output at the end of 1974 would,
unfortunately, be the last time Rosas Productions had consecutive offerings,
despite the consistently great business each of its releases made every time.
In the next three years, the outfit would only produce two more films, never
to be revived afterwards. Indeed, Roces herself as an actress only starred in
the two films she produced in 1974, and from then on acted in only one film
a year until 1978.
On October 22, 1976, Rosas Productions came out with its
penultimate release, the ensemble comedy Sapagka’t Kami’y Mga Misis
Lamang. The film, which co-starred Roces with the new movie queen
of the ‘70s, Nora Aunor, character actress Celia Rodriguez, and comedy
powerhouse Chichay, marked the former’s first comedy picture in more
than three years. While the film’s publicity materials marketed it as a
playful domestic battle of the sexes, an official film synopsis has yet to be
found. However, its related ephemera of stills37 suggest its similarity to
the husband-wife comedy pictures that Roces and Poe would later star in
near the end of the decade, Mahal, Saan Ka Nanggaling Kagabi and Mahal,
Ginagabi Ka na Naman, both released in 1979 by FPJ Productions.
Less than a year after this, Rosas Productions presented its final
offering—the supernatural horror Maligno. Released on June 23, 1977,
the film reunited Roces with her constant leading man Dante Rivero and
filmmaker Celso Ad. Castillo in what would be the last official horror film
produced by her outfit. Maligno shared its story premise with the American
horror film Rosemary’s Baby (1968), and indeed was perhaps inspired by the
release of the latter’s made-for-TV sequel Look What’s Happened to Rosemary’s
Baby just the year prior (1976). Nevertheless, this take on the woman- Film ads for Sapagka’t Kami’y Mga Misis Lamang
(1976) and Maligno (1977)
impregnated-by-Satan narrative did more than just transplant the plot to the
Philippine context. Instead, it used it to explore distinctly Filipino themes
and concerns, such as the plight of the modern working Babaeng Pilipina,
the anxieties of motherhood, and a sincere reflection on the limits of faith
and the constant struggle to believe. Indeed, the film’s defiant theological
treatizes, particularly those uttered by Roces near the end, served as an
intelligent unpacking and questioning of the Christian virtues and morality
found at the core of her performance of the postwar Babaeng Pilipina ideal.
While the film proved to be another monster hit at the box office, it also
delivered the last FAMAS nomination and first win for Best Actress that
Roces received for a Rosas film production.
While the story of Rosas Productions officially ended with the
financial and critical triumph of Maligno, there remained one film produced
after it that people—fans and scholars alike—have continued to mistake as
the last Rosas Productions outing—‘Gumising Ka… Maruja.’ Released on
September 14, 1978, this film has been considered the last entry in Roces’s
horror film cycle. However, while the film was the star’s final venture into
the gothic horror genre, this project’s epic scale motivated her husband to
127
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produce the film for Roces as a “gift of love” for her, according
to an article on the film in Liwayway Magazine.38 When asked
about it after a screening of the restored film in 2019, Roces
credited Lino Brocka for the project’s inception because he
came to them with the story and script, the cast he had in
mind, and the locations he envisioned.39 As may be gleaned
from her response, this view of the scope of the work of film
producing as the total conception of the creative vision for a
film project, together with the logistical labor and financial
investment toward the realization of the said vision, might
serve as an instructive encapsulation of the behind the scenes
work that Roces had rendered as a producer for all the Rosas
releases and the FPJ Productions offerings she oversaw after
taking on the responsibility of being the latter’s co-proprietor.
Indeed, Gumising worked reflexively as a celebration
of so many layers of Roces’s career—of the continued hold
her portrayal of the character Maruja had over the public’s
imagination since the release of that mega-blockbuster in
1967, of her enduring power as a star who, despite her then
increasingly limited appearances, would not need a comeback
because, as in the words of her character Nina Concepcion, “I
never left,” and of the intelligence, stamina, and business-savvy
that characterized her invisible, behind the scenes labor for
Rosas Productions and the entire FPJ Productions’ filmmaking
ecosystem.
It would only be fitting to close this discussion of
the story of Rosas Productions and this bonus hanger-on
film that had always been mistaken as a Rosas production to
acknowledge that Gumising Ka… Maruja, like the other films
in her acclaimed horror film cycle, made a killing at the box
office and, most importantly, earned for Roces the distinction of
not just another FAMAS nomination for Best Actress but the
rare achievement of a back-to-back win in the same category,
following her victory the year prior for the last horror film she
did produce under Rosas, Maligno (1977).
The Stories of Susan Roces as Producer and Businesswoman
While telling the story of Rosas Productions consisted
of going through the outfit’s filmography vis-à-vis the personal
developments, financial decisions, and critical reception that
informed the production of each of its releases, as well as
documenting the general shifts in the outfit’s productivity
during its ten-year run, exploring the work of Roces as
producer and businesswoman, on the other hand, would
necessitate gathering accounts of her business philosophy and
creative interests, her work ethic and working relationships
with collaborators, and the extent of her grasp of her audience
and their dynamic.
When Susan Roces passed away last May 20, 2022,
the country lost not only the Queen of its cinema industry but
128
Film ad for Gumising Ka… Maruja (1978)
also a cultural icon whose performance and embodiment of
a distinctly Filipino femininity has endured as an ideal in the
popular imagination. As our collective loss has rendered a direct
and probing inquiry with Roces about her thought process
now impossible, the following discussion has been informed
by interviews the author conducted with key individuals with
intimate knowledge of her work and times as a producer and
co-proprietor of the FPJ Productions’ filmmaking ecosystem,
as well as piecing together statements about producing Roces
herself made in published interviews.
Jeffrey Sonora, nephew to Roces, grandnephew to
Poe, and now head of the FPJ Studio’s Film Archives and
Restoration Services, when asked to consider his aunt and
grand-uncle’s work as independent producers, attested to the
thoughtfulness with which they approached film production.
They only produced films kasi when there’s a story
worth backing. They always look for stories na
appropriate [for their respective star images] and
something they could relate [to], or something that
would be appreciated by the masses, kasi of course
it’s a business entity, and [yet] hindi naman siya
very commercialized… Kasi unlike mga productions
ngayon, [which might] produce 5, 6, or probably even
10 films a year just to [hopefully release a handful
that will be hits at the box office]. It wasn’t like that
for both of them.40
This brief assessment of Roces and Poe’s producing
philosophy, echoed by other observers elsewhere, revealed three
key aspects to their work—first, their careful and deliberate
choice of story materials deemed worthy of their audience by
virtue of their relatability and resonance; second, a firm grasp
of who their audiences were and what would resonate with and
LONG TAKE
appeal to them; and third, an insistence on the quality of each
release over the quantity of their output.
A write-up released in 1973, which tried to account
for the couple’s then-continuing box office success as stars and
producers, expounded on that last aspect.
Bilang mga producers, sina Ronnie at Susan ay
matagumpay. Ito’y dahil na rin sa kanilang maingat
at masinop na pamamaraan, pagpili ng mahusay
na script at paggasta nang todo basta rin lamang
sa ikagaganda ng produksiyon. Ang mga ito at
ang kanilang business foresight or acumen are the
reasons why most, if not all, pictures of FPJ or Rosas
Productions are money-makers.41
Indeed, in the following year, an article that reported
on the progress of Roces’s then-return to the horror genre
wrote:
Patayin Mo sa Sindak si Barbara!’, Susan explained,
is not being rushed to meet the playdate. It may
be shown in the latter part of July or the middle
of August. What is important to them is to turn
out a truly good picture, something that is both
entertaining and has quality. Not for a certain type of
audience only but for everybody—rich or poor, high
or low, young or old, and just about everybody.
We’ve been shooting for the past two months
now—and without any let-up, you know—and we
still have a few more days to go before the picture is
finished. We have to reshoot some scenes, especially
those that require special effects after seeing the
rushes that they are not well executed. Fortunately
for us, we have a very cooperative cast that does
not complain about the number of days they spend
shooting. What matters, I like to think, is that we
have a nice picture to show…,” the star-producer
said.42
This insistence on quality exceeded Roces’s willingness
to spend time and money on reshoots and production values.
However, as veteran entertainment journalist, film producer,
and Roces confidante Baby K. Jimenez pointed out, it started at
the very conception of each project, echoing the first key aspect
of Roces’s producing philosophy—her vetting and selection of
story material for adaptation.
She loves to get stories from authors, and then pinag-
aaralan niya iyon. Ina-analyze niya yong mga istorya
and then she would meet with the authors, and then
discuss na, “Pwede nating palitan itong [bahaging ito
ng kwento].” Maraming ideas yan…43
This effort to shape each story material as a film
adaptation and determine how best to conform it to or
accommodate Roces’s star image extended even to her favorite
source materials—komiks serials.
She also believed that stories published in komiks
[are] pre-sold na sa mga fans, so meron nang
following iyan, so when they’re translated to film
[they’re assured hits]. Like Maruja, di ba? Maruja
was the number one serialized [komiks story at that
time], walang dadaig sa Maruja. It was the number
one serialized story by Mars Ravelo. Ang mga
tao pupunta sa tindahan, “Wala pa bang Pilipino
Komiks?”—I think it was in Pilipino Komiks—
“Wala pang bago kasi yong Maruja? Ano kaya, buhay
si ganun?” Ganun sila, so nung in-announce na siya
iyun [gaganap] at ni-film, pre-sold na talaga yong
idea. Sigurado na, di ba?44
While we no longer have access to sources that could
detail her degree of involvement, particularly in the conception
of the few original stories she produced under Rosas, such as
Kulay Rosas ang Pag-ibig (1968) and Dearest, Forever (1972),
Roces’s extended interview with Boy Abunda in 2009 about
how she came up with the idea for a film that later spawned a
franchise of domestic comedy features, which starred herself
and her husband for FPJ Productions, provides us with a
glimpse into her creative impulses as a producer.
Ang hindi ko lang makakalimutan, hindi sa
paborito ko kundi hindi ko lang makakalimutan,
kung paanong nagkaroon ng pelikulang Mahal,
Saan Ka Nanggaling Kagabi? Kasi isip na sila nang
isip kung anung pelikula ang gagawin na hindi
naman masyadong mapapagod si FPJ dahil ang
pinanggalingang pelikula ay masyadong physical, so
naghahanap sila ng story ideas.
Hiningan ako ng suggestion.
“Meron ako kaso nakakahiya e,” yun ang sabi ko.
“Nakakahiya e.”
“Bakit naman?”
“E kasi parang kwela lang kung kasama ako.”
It was a popular song by Imelda Papin, and
often times I would hear it as I would be driving
somewhere, ‘Mahal, saan ka nanggaling kagabi?’
Tapos, ang sabi ko pa, “Naku, magtatanung-tanong
ka pa, hindi ka naman sasagutin niyan.”
Anyway, dahil masyado akong nag-e-emote sa
kantang iyon, siguro marami ding mga misis na
katulad ko na nakaka-relate dun sa kanta kaya yun na
lang yong sinuggest ko.
“Madali lang gawin. Hindi magastos. Dito-dito
129
 LONG TAKE
lang ang shooting. Wala masyadong puyatan at
nakakatawa.”
“O, ano yun?”
“‘Mahal, Saan Ka Nanggaling Kagabi?,’ i-comedy
natin.”45
This anecdote from the 2009 Cinema One interview
spoke to how involved Roces was, not just in the financial
management of FPJ Productions but even in the creative
production of her husband’s films. Indeed, Jimenez shared
the following observation about the couple’s constant creative
collaboration.
Si Ronnie at si Susan, they discuss a lot about
materials. Ronnie listens to Susan’s ideas.
Susan would listen to Ronnie. There’s always
communication between them about filmmaking. It’s
not just sitting down with the director, pinag-uusapan
nilang dalawa iyan.46
Besides Roces’s collaborative relationship with her
husband and business partner, Jimenez also gave insight into
how deliberate and thought-out the former was about whom
she collaborated with in each project and how she selected
these collaborators.
[She’s] very detailed. Pati pagpili ng director,
detalyado iyan. Alam na [niya which director was
best-suited for the material]. Noon, pag drama,
Armando de Guzman. Pati music. Para bang, [it’s
already filed] in [her] memory, pati na rin sa filing [of
her previous working experiences with them], alam
na [niya] kung sino ang magaling sa drama, sino ang
magaling sa music na babagay doon. Naka-set na
iyon. Then yong artista pipiliin na rin [niya]. Atsaka
meron din [siyang], if this particular star cannot
make it kasi may ginagawa, meron [siyang] selection
B. Tipong merong tatlong artista doon, “Ito ba
available? E ito?” Meron [siyang] choice, pero if that
choice doesn’t work [out] kasi busy, meron [siya] agad
[option] B. Talagang well-planned, hindi biglaan na,
“O sige, tawagin mo na lang si Teban, gawin niya
itong—.” Hindi. Talagang lahat iyan naka-detail.47
In the only available reportage that attempted to
center the story on her role as producer and star, Roces spelled
out her collaborative process and how she juggled donning
both hats whenever she starred in the films she produced, as
detailed in Cleo Cruz’s article on the making of Dalawa ang
Nagdalantao sa Akin (1974).
The director, unit manager, others, and myself get
together. Pinag-uusapan namin lengthily ang mga
dapat naming gawin concerning the picture that we
will make. We argue, we disagree on many points
130
in connection with the pros and cons tungkol sa
pelikula.”
Bilang producer, Susan is democratic concerning the
voice of the people under her. Binibigyan niya ng free
rein na maibigay ang kani-kanilang arguments and
suggestions.
“Pero sa actual shooting, hindi na ako nakikialam.
Kasi, delegated na sa kanila ang obligations nila.
The unit manager and the production manager
work as a team. At ang pinaka-captain of the ship
ay ang director. The boss. At ako, artista na lang…
Iyon bang feelings, tension, etcetera, na laging nasa
producer pag may ginagawang pelikula ang outfit
niya. Kinakalimutan kong lahat iyan. Mahirap kasi,
e. Very sure na maa-affect ang acting ko. So I just
concentrate on being an actress.”48
Jimenez further expounded on the centrality of
collaboration in Roces’s approach to film producing by
recognizing not just her working relationships with film
directors and scriptwriters but, perhaps even more importantly,
her almost conspiratorial relationship with the film public,
something that Jimenez credited to Poe pioneering.
Although some directors or story writers would
suggest to [her], siyempre the last decision will be
[her] say, kasi hindi lang naman yong sarili [niya]
yong iniisip [niya]. [She’s] open to suggestions. Yong
may pupunta sa palengke tapos kunwari, “Uy, nanuod
na ba kayo ng— Ano ba yong gusto niyo?” May
nagtatanung ng mga ganun, parang sa advertising
[agency] lang ba talaga. Ganun.
If their film is showing, meron silang sinasabihan
na, “Sige, pumasok ka dun sa mga theaters, sa iba’t-
ibang theaters, tapos pakinggan mo yong sinasabi ng
mga tao.” Meron silang ganun… The person could
either be a relative or somebody na, halimbawa, yong
binibilhan nila ng balut.
Ganun iyan, lalo na si Kuya Ronnie. Si Kuya Ronnie
magaling sa ganun e. Halimbawa yong binibilhan nila
ng siopao, yong the common tao, ano yan talagang,
“Sige, panuorin mo. Anong sabi? Ano yong nadinig
mo?” Ganun sila.
So yong marketing, it’s not just nagde-depend sila
sa general marketing. Alam din nila na, ‘Ah, so ang
gusto pala nila pag baril ni Ronnie, ganitong style.’
Because naririnig nila yong feedback ng mga tao at
yong palakpakan. Meron silang mga pinapupunta
dyan na, “Pumasok ka sa theater na ito” o “Ano ang
nadinig mo? Anong sabi?” Mga ganun, so it’s not just
general marketing but detailed marketing.”49
LONG TAKE
This very grounded and immediate approach to
market research kept Roces and her husband abreast of popular
tastes and created a deep and personal connection with their
audiences.
From the start of her stardom under Sampaguita,
Roces had been known for the kindness she showed her fans.
While acknowledging the genuine kindness of her friend,
Jimenez also recognized the beneficial dimension of this close
relationship between the star and her fandom.
That’s why Susan reads her fan mails, because sinasabi
nila doon, “Gusto namin ho yong ganito yong gawin
niyo.” Magaganda ang suggestions ng fans, alam mo
ba? “Bakit hindi ho kayo gumawa ng—” Nakikinig
iyan, nakikinig iyan.50
This access to direct and active fan feedback rewarded
both Roces and her fans, as the former continued to have an
ever-evolving understanding of what made her fans click and
how best to hold their interest, while the latter gained some
degree of access to and formed a kind of relationship that no
longer remained merely parasocial with their idol.
Indeed, when Roces decided to produce Dalawa ang
Nagdalantao sa Akin (1974), a film that might seem superficially
a retread of an earlier surrogacy-themed Rosas hit, Isinilang Ko
ang Anak ng Ibang Babae (1972), and cast herself opposite one
of Isinilang’s stars, Boots Anson-Roa, it was a creative decision
she openly credited to her fans.
Noon pa man marami na ang humihiling na
pagsamahin sa pelikula sina Susan at Boots. Marami
ang sumusulat sa tanggapan ng FPJ Productions,
maging sa Rosas at sa ibang istudyo, na kung maaari
sana’y sina Susan at Boots ay tatambal sa pelikula.
Puwede silang magkapatid sa pelikula, anang iba.
Puwede rin silang maging matalik na magkaibigan
o dili kaya’y magkatunggali naman. Ano man ang
papel na iaatang sa kanila, ang mahalaga’y magsasama
sila sa isang pelikula. Maging ang mga bookers sa
probinsiya, ang mga exhibitors ay humihiling din
na pagsamahin sa pelikula ang dalawang tanyag na
aktres ng sine Pilipino.
…Hanggang inalok ni Elena M Patron ang yugto-
yugto niyang nobela, ang “Dalawa ang Nagdalang-
tao sa Akin”. Sa una pa lamang pagkabasa ni Susan
sa nobelang ito, alam na niya kung sinu-sino ang
gaganap sa mahahalagang papel ng mga pangunahing
katauhan sa istorya. Si Boots at siya!51
While fan letters were able to provide Roces and her
production outfit productive suggestions for story ideas or
casting choices, they were also avenues for equally important
prohibitive feedback regulating the possible directions or
developments of her star image. In an interview this author had
the opportunity to hold with the star in 2015, Roces confessed
that despite the critical and commercial success of Gumising
Ka… Maruja (1978), she received significant pushback from
fans. They wrote to her about their unease with the sensuality
she was willing to explore in that film. Hence none of her films
that followed tried to go down that route again.52
This case proved not just instructive to Roces about
the limits she faced over the determination of her star image
but was also quite revelatory of the dynamic between the
star and her fans. What emerged was a clearer picture of the
intricacies that characterized the star-fan collaboration, in that
both the idol and her followers were active co-creators of the
Susan Roces persona and co-determinants of the conditions
within which this persona should (and, by implication, should
not) be presented on film.
Through the prism of this shared responsibility over
the Susan Roces persona and the tremendous labor that the
star-producer would have had to carry out to maintain it,
one would understand the appeal that semi-retirement and,
consequently, a lower profile would have held. In those years in
the ‘70s, when she only came out in about one or two films a
year, she became even more involved in the behind-the-scenes
production work of the FPJ Productions ecosystem.
The following excerpts from three articles released in
1978, around the time of the release of Gumising Ka… Maruja
and the critical and popular hype surrounding the film paint a
picture of the fulfillment Roces had found in immersing herself
in lower profile producing work for her husband’s production
company. According to accounts by Florendo, Bautista, and
Arvisu:
Shortly after their marriage, Susan lay low for a time
to involve herself in production (she has kept her own
Rosas Productions a separate entity from hubby’s FPJ
Productions). “They were interesting years. I learned
so much.”53
Movies were topmost while I was single. When we
got married, I knew it would be very conflicting to
pursue a career in motion pictures. That does not
mean I’m saying it was a sacrifice on my part. Ronnie
never told me not to act anymore. But I consider
marriage as a more important career.54
“I wouldn’t do anything to complicate my family
life.” She has since kept a low profile in the industry,
making few movies over the years. Most of the
time, she is kept busy with production work. “It has
expanded my horizons.” She admits that she had
learned more about filmmaking behind the cameras.55
Even a basic familiarity with Roces’s subsequent film
outputs in the 80s and her late-career ubiquity on the small
131
 LONG TAKE
Title cards bearing Susan Roces’ producer credits in Florinda
screen from the late 2000s throughout the 2010s would show
that the Queen remained adored by her public. However,
beyond these higher profile endeavors, this exploration of
her behind-the-scenes efforts as a producer, her producing
philosophy, and her collaborative relationship with her audience
hoped to have reintroduced often-overlooked aspects of her
legacy and account for her magic onscreen by recognizing her
labors behind the curtain.
Acknowledgement
The author’s unending gratitude to the following people who
have so generously shared their time, resources, and insights to
make the research for this article possible: Jeffrey Sonora, Baby
K. Jimenez, James dela Rosa, Simon Santos, Teena Liwanag,
Jojo de Vera, Patrick Campos, and Jesusa Levy Sonora-Poe, to
whom this article is dedicated.
Gershom C. Chua lectures on film theory and cinema studies
at the University of the Philippines Film Institute. His first
distinct impression of Susan Roces was formed at age 13 when
he caught her in what would be her final film performance
as Sol, the estranged Filipino matriarch of a Chinese Filipino
family, in Mano Po 2: My Home (2003). He would then spend
most of his graduate studies years rediscovering her body of
work and reevaluating her place in Philippine cinema.
A sample of a fan letter addressed to Roces, sent to and published by a major film magazine, Screen Stardom, in 1966
132
LONG TAKE
Endnotes
1 Gershom Chua, “Constructing the Babaeng Pilipina Ideal: TULISAN
(1962) and the Three Faces of Postwar Filipino Femininity,” PELIKULA:
A Journal of Philippine Cinema and Moving Image 6 (2021): 139-151.
2 Cesar D. Orsal, Movie Queen: Pagbuo ng Mito at Kapangyarihang Kultural
ng Babae sa Lipunan (Quezon City: New Day, 2006).
3 Johven Velasco, “A Very Special Participation,” Huwaran/Hulmahan
Atbp.: The Film Writings of Johven Velasco, ed. Joel David (Quezon City:
University of the Philippines Press, 2009).
4 Cinema One. [2009] “FULL INTERVIEW: Inside the Cinema
with Susan Roces | Cinema One.” Reposted in YouTube May
26, 2022. Accessed on November 28, 2022. www.youtube.com/
watch?v=yMbBrO4q6y4
5 Cleo Cruz, 1974. “Susan, Bilang Actress at Producer,” Bulaklak Magazine,
November 6. Reposted January 13, 2015 in Online Blog ‘Susan Roces
(First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies).’ Accessed on
November 28, 2022. susanroces.blogspot.com/2015/01/susan-bilang-
actress-at-producer.html
6 See Chua, “Constructing the Babaeng Pilipina Ideal: TULISAN (1962)
and the Three Faces of Postwar Filipino Femininity,” for an elaboration of
the Babaeng Pilipina Ideal and how this resultant cultural standard was
a negotiated amalgamation of two earlier conflicting colonial images of
femininity
7 Tributes to the passing of movie queen Amalia Fuentes frequently cited
her achievements as a hyphenate—actress, movie queen, and producer—
including directorial and writing efforts, in summation of her legacy, such
as in this one by Jewelle Pacia, “Veteran actress Amalia Fuentes dies at
78,” Pika Pika: Juicy Showbiz Bites, October 5, 2019, www.pikapika.ph/
pikadaily/veteran-actress-amalia-fuentes-dies-at-78/local-news-1
8 From 1965 to 1967, Roces appeared in an average of one film a month,
making—in total—12 films in 1965, 12 films in 1966, and nine films in
1967. (“Susan Roces”, IMDB). Not to mention her films being included
in the annual Top 10 Highest Grossing releases starting in 1959, with
four of her films on the same list in 1962, three in 1963, and five of the
ten films starring her in 1964. See Baby K. Jimenez, “Supported by Facts
and Figures, Writer Baby K. Jimenez Says that the Nation’s Hottest Star
and Undoubtedly the Queen of Local Cinema is Susan Roces,” Screen
Stardom 5, no. 5 (1966), reposted March 16, 2022 in ‘Susan Roces (First
Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)’ [Blog], accessed on
November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2022/03/supported-by-
facts-and-figures-writer.html.
9 In a 2014 interview with PeopleAsia, Roces says of this eight year
contract: “I had signed to a four-year build-up contract with Sampaguita
Pictures. It stated that when you are named a star within your first year,
it automatically becomes another four years. So I graduated with flying
colors for eight years from the Sampaguita Academy.” Quoted from
Greggy Vera Cruz, “Bed of ‘Roces’,” Stargate PeopleAsia, May 23, 2022,
accessed on November 28, 2022, peopleasia.ph/bed-of-roces/.
10 Jimenez, “Supported by Facts and Figures, Writer Baby K. Jimenez Says
that the Nation’s Hottest Star and Undoubtedly the Queen of Local
Cinema is Susan Roces.”
11 Simon Santos, “The Sixties #215: Fernando Poe, Jr., Rebecca, Paquito
Diaz, Jay Ilagan, Dencio Padilla in “Batang Maynila” (1962),” Video48:
A Virtual and Online Library and Archive on Philippine Cinema [Blog],
September 14, 2014, accessed on November 28, 2022, video48.blogspot.
com/2014/09/the-sixties-215-fernando-poe-jr-rebecca.html.
12 Elizabeth Poe, interviewed by Jeffrey Sonora, Video recording, 2019,
transcribed November 10, 2022 by Gershom Chua, quoted with
permission.
13 Jimenez, “Supported by Facts and Figures, Writer Baby K. Jimenez Says
that the Nation’s Hottest Star and Undoubtedly the Queen of Local
Cinema is Susan Roces.”
14 Baby K. Jimenez, interviewed by Gershom Chua, Zoom Interview,
August 16, 2022, quoted with permission.
15 Jeffrey Sonora, interviewed by Gershom Chua, Zoom Interview,
November 5, 2022, quoted with permission.
16 James dela Rosa, “Kulay Rosas ang Pag-ibig,” Susan Roces (First Lady and
Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies) [Blog], January 30, 2010, accessed on
November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2010/01/kulay-rosas-ang-
pag-ibig-1968.html
17 Teena Cruzet, 1968. “The Superstar of Superstars,” Tin-Edyers Songs &
Shows Magazine, June 27, reposted July 7, 2017 in ‘Susan Roces (First
133
 LONG TAKE

Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)’ [Blog], accessed on 42 No Author, “Susan Roces: On Direction, Celso Ad. Castillo,” Sixteen
November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-superstar-of- Magazine, July 24, 1974, reposted August 28, 2015 in ‘Susan Roces (First
superstars-by-teena.html. Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)’ [Blog], accessed on
18 Variations of this premise were repeated in the Roces-Poe starrers Ikaw November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2015/08/susan-roces-on-
ang Lahat sa Akin (1969) and Salaguinto’t Salagubang (1972). direction-celso-ad.html.
19 James dela Rosa, “To Susan With Love (1968),” Susan Roces (First Lady 43 Jimenez, Zoom Interview, August 16, 2022.
and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies), February 1, 2010, accessed on 44 Ibid.
November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2010/02/to-susan-with- 45 Cinema One. [2009] “FULL INTERVIEW: Inside the Cinema with
love-1968.html. Susan Roces | Cinema One,” 23:11-25:02.
20 Baby K. Jimenez, “The Real-Life Wedding of Susan & Ronnie,” Screen 46 Jimenez, Zoom Interview, August 16, 2022.
Stardom 5, no. 5 (1968): 15-16, reposted June 3, 2022 in ‘Susan Roces 47 Ibid.
(First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)’ [Blog], accessed 48 Cruz, “Susan Bilang Actress at Producer.”
on November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2022/06/the-real-life- 49 Jimenez, Zoom Interview, August 16, 2022.
wedding-of-susan-ronnie.html. 50 Ibid
21 A. M. Ocampo, “The Wedding of the Year,” Screen Stardom (1969): 3-4, 51 Celino, “Susan, Boots magkasama sa unang pagkakataon.”
reposted March 9, 2009, in ‘FPJ’ [Blog], accessed on November 28, 2022, 52 Roces, In-Person Interview, October 17, 2015.
fpj-daking.blogspot.com/2009/03/fpj-susan-roces-wedding-dream- 53 Abraham Florendo, “Susan: The Ever-Blooming Roces,” Sunburst, August
come-true.html. 1978.
22 James dela Rosa, “The Ronnie-Susan Wedding & Ang Daigdig Ko’y Ikaw 54 Mario E. Bautista, “Her Marriage Comes First: Susan Roces, the
(1969),” Susan Roces (First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies) Actress,” Philippines Daily Express, September 2, 1978, reposted October
[Blog], February 6, 2010, susanroces.blogspot.com/2010/02/ronnie- 29, 2010 in ‘Susan Roces (First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine
susan-wedding-ang-daigdig-koy.html. Movies)’ [Blog], accessed on November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.
23 Susan Roces, interviewed by Gershom Chua, In-Person Interview, com/2010/10/her-marriage-comes-first-susan-roces.html.
October 17, 2015, quoted with permission. 55 Carlos P. Arvisu, “Susan Roces: With God on Her Side.” WHO Magazine,
24 Jimenez, Zoom Interview, August 16, 2022. July 8, 1978, reposted October 6, 2014 in ‘Susan Roces (First Lady and
25 D’Lanor Productions made Captain Barbell (1964), Alyas Batman at Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)’ [Blog], accessed on November 28,
Robin (1965), Captain Philippines at Boy Pinoy (1965), and Alyas 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2014/10/susan-roces-with-god-on-her-
Phantom (1966), all starring Bob Soler, who was then married to Poe, Jr.’s side-who.html.
older sister, Elizabeth. (“D’Lanor Productions,” “Bob Soler,” IMDB).
26 Jimenez, Zoom Interview, August 16, 2022.
27 Ibid.
28 Ibid.
29 Simon Santos, “Rosemarie-Pepito Rodriguez Love Team Circa 1965-
1969,” Video48: A Virtual and Online Library and Archive on Philippine
Cinema [Blog], August 1, 2008, accessed on November 28, 2022, video48.
blogspot.com/2008/08/rosemarie-pepito-rodriguez-love-team.html
30 Cruzet, 1968. “The Superstar of Superstars.”
31 Simon Santos, “Rosemarie-Ricky Belmonte Love Team Circa 1967-
1972,” Video48: A Virtual and Online Library and Archive on Philippine
Cinema [Blog], August 3, 2008, accessed on November 28, 2022, video48.
blogspot.com/2008/08/rosemarie-ricky-belmonte-love-team.html.
32 Santos, “Rosemarie-Pepito Rodriguez Love Team Circa 1965-1969.”
33 James dela Rosa, “1972 FAMAS Award Nomination (“Bilangguang
Puso”),” Susan Roces (First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)
[Blog], December 1, 2010, accessed on November 28, 2022, susanroces.
blogspot.com/2010/12/1972-famas-award-nomination-bilangguang.html
34 Sonora, Zoom Interview, November 5, 2022.
35 Celino, Jr, Ross F. (1974). “Susan, Boots magkasama sa unang
pagkakataon.” People’s Journal, reposted March 22, 2010 in Susan Roces
(First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies) [Blog], accessed
on November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2010/03/dalawa-ang-
nagdalantao-sa-akin-1974.html.
36 James dela Rosa, “1974 FAMAS Award Nomination (“Patayin Mo
sa Sindak si Barbara”),” Susan Roces (First Lady and Eternal Queen of
Philippine Movies) [Blog], December 3, 2010, accessed on November 28,
2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2010/12/1974-famas-award-nomination-
patayin-mo.html.
37 James dela Rosa, “Sapagka’t Kami’y Mga Misis Lamang,” Susan Roces
(First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies) [Blog], July 25, 2018,
accessed on November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2018/07/
sapagkat-kamiy-mga-misis-lamang-1976.html.
38 No Author, “Ang “Gift of Love” ni Ronnie kay Susan.” Liwayway
Magazine, August 14, 1978.
39 Tamayo, Inky. 2019. “There was a Q & A after the screening of the
restored version of Gumising Ka, Maruja last May 04, 2019” [Facebook
Video], June 2, 2019, 04:22-04:48; 16:10-16:35, accessed on https://www.
facebook.com/100001304011797/videos/2235618119824967/.
40 Sonora, Zoom Interview, November 5, 2022.
41 Ross F. Celino, Jr, “Ronnie and Susan: Love Everlasting.” Bondying
Komeex, no. 131, February 4, 1973, reposted April 12, 2012 in ‘Susan
Roces (First Lady and Eternal Queen of Philippine Movies)’ [Blog],
accessed on November 28, 2022, susanroces.blogspot.com/2012/04/
ronnie-and-susan-love-everlasting.html

134 135
 SHORT TAKE
T
he very notion of film preservation, much
less restoration, has taken a sense of urgency
in the last decade, arguably through the
visibility given by the efforts of ABS-CBN Film Restoration’s
Sagip Pelikula (yes, it is a mouthful). When the initiative
started in 2011, we were viewed as ningas-kugon or a flash in
the pan, starting off with high profile films like Himala (1982),
Oro, Plata, Mata (1982), and Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo
Ngayon? (1976) only to fade into oblivion after a few rah-rahs.
A decade and more than 200 films later, the landscape
has changed, and the urgency of rescuing our films is front and
center in many people’s minds even as our efforts have slowed
down considerably due to external forces that impacted ABS-
CBN considerably—the franchise denial and subsequent loss
of budgets and human resources.
No Aftermarket
Before television became a staple, films were originally
just for the big screen and had no real life post theatrical. There
was little value in maintaining print copies that occupied space
and needed special storage conditions. Nitrate stock was highly
flammable and caused quite a few fires, while acetate cellulose
decayed if stored improperly—which was usually the case—and
resulted in vinegar syndrome, the often pungent odor the film
stock emits as it degrades. Our weather conditions certainly
didn’t help as it was far from ideal—too hot, damp, and humid.
That’s why we never heard stories of cinematic gems being
unearthed in some abandoned cinema in a remote area.
To the few that did have foresight, like Reyna Films
and FPJ Studios, it was a costly enterprise that, fortunately,
they could afford. Armida Siguion-Reyna and Fernando Poe
Jr. had dedicated rooms and, while not necessarily humidity
controlled, would maintain a fairly consistent temperature with
staff to maintain the library. Other producers would settle for
keeping the cans with the film laboratories if they could get
away with it—beneath beds or in cabinets in an occasionally
air-conditioned room or poorly ventilated basements or storage
rooms—often forgotten until something starts to smell.
With the advent of television, home video, and cable,
that thinking was further reinforced when cheaper video tapes
took up less space and could easily be replicated, proving more
practical and economical. Many surmised video was the way to
go, and they could just keep dubbing multiple copies when the
older tapes deteriorated. This technology being analog, there
was no mindset that video duplication also causes quality loss
over time and what was once crisp would be soft and blurry a
few copies down the line.
Opposite page: Himala before & after restoration
136
SHORT TAKE
Many of us probably remember New Year’s
noisemakers made from discarded film reels, sold in bulk and
by weight after finishing their runs in far-flung cinemas. It was
the final revenue to be made off those cumbersome cans of
films that took up space and would eventually smell of rot.
The Road to the ABS-CBN Film Archives and Restoration
My love of cinema started early as both my parents
would take us to watch Hollywood and local films. The first
movie I remember watching in cinemas was Zoom, Zoom,
Superman! (1973) with Ariel Ureta. Growing up, afternoon
screenings of LVN and Sampaguita movies were staples after
homework was done or when my neighborhood playmates
were not yet available. And I would watch one to two movies a
week on the big screen because I felt that’s where they needed
to be seen.
Maalaala Mo Kaya: The Movie before & after split screen. All images are used with permission
In ABS-CBN in the early 1990s, I found myself
tackling local film acquisitions as content for broadcast and
the pre-Cinema One film cable channel, benefiting from being
familiar with many titles. greenlit the project with the belief that this was the next step premiere on August 29, 2012, in Venice. It was introduced by
in preparing our content for emerging digital platforms. At Nora Aunor, who was at the festival for another film.
In Charo Santos-Concio, I found a kindred spirit, and our behest, Gabby and Charo concurred with expanding the
we could talk movies with a shorthand that made it effortless, Himala finally premiered locally on December 4, 2012,
restoration efforts to include marquee titles already with the
so it was a no-brainer when we set up the ABS-CBN Film riding a publicity wave that included a book, a documentary,
ABS-CBN library or that we could acquire as part of the
Archives in 1994. a world premiere at the prestigious Venice Film Festival, and
advocacy we wanted.
adjudged Best Asia-Pacific film by CNN in 2008—not bad for
In Jo Atienza, we had a collaborator and well- In 2011, restoration activities officially began in a then thirty-year-old film.
regarded archivist, when there were so few of them then, who earnest. Himala took some eight months to restore and even
would steer us towards an ideal and viable path. had major hiccups when after five months of scans, grading,
and clean-up--which we were all giddy about—the image
Film restoration was already part of what the Archives
was blurred and soft once projected on the cinema screen at
wanted to do from the onset. Back then, it was all analog,
Rockwell for the first time, and all the work had to be redone.
and an initial exploration using Oro, Plata, Mata was met
With the initial learnings, Oro, Plata, Mata was done quicker
with daunting challenges that still would not fix many of
in about five months, Ganito Kami Noon in some four months,
the problems, along with astronomical costs even by today’s
and we continued the back and forth, deciding on quality and
standards. After a few weeks of exploration and trying to
parameters as to how far we can push the restoration.
rationalize costs, including consulting with the film’s director
Peque Gallaga, the project was dropped. By 2012, some eight to ten films were in various
stages of work or near completion as we also tried to consult
It was in 2009 when we revisited the idea of restoring
with the still-living filmmakers who worked on the films.
films once again. Central Digital Lab’s Manet A. Dayrit
Peque supervised the color grading of Oro. Ricky Lee was
pitched a proposal using new digital technologies that have had
consulted for Himala, with Ishmael Bernal already gone. Joey
considerable success in many film capitals. Still, it was a tough
Romero, son of the late Eddie Romero, gave inputs on Ganito
sell given the vehemently opposing views then on film versus
Kami Noon. Manet of Central was an editor on many of the
digital, but the results were compelling enough for us to take it
movies. And still-active cinematographers like Romy Vitug
to the next step using the Star Cinema film Maalaala Mo Kaya:
were keen to give details as well, especially if they happened to
The Movie (1994) as the test subject.
be at Central for other projects.
There was much back and forth with samples,
Himala was supposed to premiere in the first half of
screenings, discussions, comments, criteria, and quality
2012 but was pushed back to coincide with Ricky Lee’s coffee
assessment. However, by mid-2010, ABS-CBN management
table book launch for Himala and a planned documentary
was impressed enough with the technical results and much
by Cinema One, Himala Ngayon (2012). The screening was
lower restoration costs, and then-Chairman Gabby Lopez Himala Before & After Split Screen
delayed once more when the film was invited to have its world
137
 SHORT TAKE
Respect for the Filmmakers
I remember conversations with industry colleagues
who were also part of the academe, and one of their frustrations
was teaching or studying film but being limited to foreign titles
because so few local films survive in decent conditions, not even
enough to be appreciated.
The impression stuck, so the idea behind ABS-CBN’s
restoration efforts was to showcase a wide range of creators.
We decided we were going to be primarily director and writer-
Himala advocacy shoot centric. We listed directors and writers by their works and
identified the titles we wanted to prioritize. Of course, it was
easier if the works were already with ABS-CBN, but otherwise,
we can now look into pursuing specific films for those that were
not.
That perfect plan soon became troubled as we had to
shuffle titles within the director-writer selections when multiple
problems arose. These included ownership and rights, copies or
lack thereof, condition of the available film material, which was
in many cases the only surviving restorable copy, completeness of
the film reels, and a whole range of other concerns.
Would Virgin People (1984) be my first choice for a
Celso Ad. Castillo film restoration? Not really. Unfortunately, a
restorable copy of Tag-Ulan sa Tag-Araw (1975) didn’t surface
until much later, the existence of Burlesk Queen’s (1977) prints
remains a rumor, and the unearthed Pagputi ng Uwak, Pag-Itim
ng Tagak (1978) reels had already melted beyond recovery to the
dismay of Vilma Santos, the film’s producer, who no longer had
a copy but was very supportive of our efforts to secure the rights
and search for intact film print materials.
Nevertheless, in a decade, we did manage a good cross-
section of film work from not just different directors and writers
Himala premiere night but also cinematographers, film scorers, production designers,
many award-winning and commercial movies in a wide range
of genres spanning eight decades:Bernal, Brocka, De Leon,
Romero, Zialcita, Suzara, O’Hara, Guillen, Lee, Abaya, Zabat,
Vitug, Siguion-Reyna, Roño, Ad. Castillo, Fernandez, Cayabyab,
Avellana, Conde, Silos, Reyes, De los Reyes, Chionglo, the list
goes on.
Learning Along the Way
Central Digital Lab was our first partner locally. We
did the tests with them through all the arduous trial and error,
frustration, and jubilation, and every other emotion in between.
The commute to Makati was a regular thing as we nitpicked and
scrutinized every detail. There were no precedents then, and we
were charting new territory. Nevertheless, it was imperative that
Anna of Central Digital Lab, Inc. on Himala Restoration
we do the work with a Filipino company to show the world that
the Philippines can do world-class restoration as well.
138
SHORT TAKE
I visited the facilities of Paramount Pictures, Warner
Bros. Entertainment Inc., The Walt Disney Company, 20th
Century Fox Studios, University of California Los Angeles,
Universal Pictures, Post Haste, Deluxe, and Sony Imageworks,
seeking guidance and inspiration because ABS-CBN Film
Restoration is an expensive enterprise. While I learned a lot
about processes and systems, what excited and terrified me
was that what we had planned was far more ambitious than
what the Hollywood studios were doing then. They were
amazed that we were proceeding with our initiative with a
far ahead look into the future, whereas revenues per film on
the immediate governed their decisions. On the other hand,
our cinema tie-ups, marketing campaigns, and roadshows
were being done as part of an overall strategy designed to put
everything under our corporate advocacy. Ergo, we had no
template to follow and were making the rules along the way.
Caution and responsibility were our new mantras. We
planned, strategized, shifted priorities, capped restoration costs,
partnered, and explored better options so we could get the best
value without draining our limited budgets. Soltero (1984) and
Misteryo sa Tuwa (1984) would have been our most expensive
restorations because of film damage requiring some 20,000
hours of manual work, so we waited it out, split the work,
looked for new technologies that could bring down the cost
even if it took seven years to get it done.
To put it in perspective, preservation work on Soltero
and Misteryo sa Tuwa to arrest deterioration needed to be done
first for nearly a year in L’Immagine Ritrovata before we could
scan the prints. The films were gassed to unspool them and
make them less brittle, scanned slowly to minimize tension
on the print and limit possible breakage, color graded, and
manually restored frame by frame—and that is just on the
Misteryo Sa Tuwa L'Immagine Ritrovata Italy, August 2016
image. To put it in more straightforward terms, the photos
we see on the social media that have been touched up and
colorized are the equivalent of a single frame of film. There are
twenty-four frames per second, sixty seconds per minute, so
with a ninety-minute film, which was rarely the standard film
length, we are looking at 129,600 individual frames, minimum.
While not all frames will require the same level of restoration,
that’s still a massive amount of work to remove scratches and
jitter, stabilize the image, eliminate molds and splices, and a
whole bunch of problems.
Our partnerships and collaborations expanded beyond
Central Digital to include the Ritrovata in Bologna in Italy,
Kantana in Thailand, the British Film Institute, the Singapore
Archives, the Japan Foundation, the Film Development
Council of the Philippines, the Cultural Center of the
Philippines, Wildsound, and our in-house team in ABS-CBN.
It was no longer unusual for a film to have multiple restoration
credits: scanned in Italy (L’Immagine Ritrovata), color-graded
in Manila (Narra Post-Production Studios by Wildsound),
restored in Thailand (Kantana Post Production), audio-restored
in Manila (ABS-CBN and Narra Post-Production Studios by
Wildsound).
Making the Old Feel New for a New Generation
We love old movies and would watch a clearer, cleaner,
enhanced version anytime. The same cannot be said about
the younger generation who do not share the passion for the
old films as we do. Not for anything, but they were simply
not exposed to the same movies as a broader range of choices
with better technical quality became available not just in the
500-channel universe but on other multi-media platforms.
Soltero Print Comparison 4 at L'Immagine Ritrovata Italy
139
 SHORT TAKE
The author at the Legacy Sagip Pelikula 2016. Photo by Andrei Antonio
We clearly needed to re-introduce the “classics” to a
new audience. It would be a slow process as we were pragmatic
enough to know that it’s a tough sell, convincing young people
they needed something they didn’t even know.
While Maaalaala Mo Kaya: The Movie was the first
restoration, we decided we needed to start with a true classic—
Himala. The Star Cinema movies were barely fifteen years
old at the time, hard to call classics even if we add the word
“modern.” So we included them to the mix of what would be
considered classics.
When we decided on new posters, the only mandate
was that they were eye-catching, had an impact, and could stop
the passersby dead on their tracks enough to consider watching
the movie on the strength of an image. We have had only one
poster designer since we started, and Justin Besana delivered
then and has continued to do so for eleven years.
The new trailers also had to feel new and young
despite the films being twenty or thirty years old. Our
generation would watch it, especially if we loved the movies the
first time, but millennials and Gen Zs? So we challenged young
creatives and asked them how they would edit the trailers so
their friends would be excited to watch an oldie. Discussing
approaches and takes was fun, and they often made for
engaging trailers. In the case of Oro, Plata, Mata, the producers
used Titanic (1997) and Les Misérables (2012) as their pegs in
terms of impact.
We weren’t deceiving people by making them think
it was a new film. It was an old film, but it’s a good old one
made well enough to survive changing tastes and preferences of
several generations and was worth revisiting. We just needed to
put a fresh spin or a more polished veneer so old didn’t feel old.
If the old Hollywood films can be perennial seasonal staples
even if they are some fifty to eighty years old, why can’t our
classics be seen the same way?
140
PMC St. Paul's University Manila, January 2015
Sagip Pelikula
Sagip Pelikula continues to be an active advocacy,
reaching out to different audiences. People won’t know
what to look for if they are never exposed to it, so it’s our
job to create awareness. Social media, cinema partnerships,
viewing platforms, international film festivals, academic and
professional symposia, and advocacy campaigns have all been
venues to share this passion and belief.
As a private enterprise, we need to be fiscally
responsible, and while a few titles, especially the early ones,
have recovered their cost, many still have not. The idea was
for ABS-CBN Film Restoration to be self-supporting with
revenues funding the later restorations, a bit of a pay-it-
forward mentality.
The journey has been a difficult one. Not everybody
agrees that resources (and it is considerable) should be allocated
to the old and that they are better spent on new productions.
“Luma na yan, Gagastusan niyo na naman.” But I have a quick
rebuttal: “And what makes you so sure your new movie will be
a classic?” That pretty much ends the debate in most instances.
Even locally, acknowledging what we do is spotty
and could often be frustrating. However, we had supporters
within and outside of ABS-CBN who would bat for us and
give us much-needed encouragement. Many artists who are not
even part of the movies we restore attend our screenings, give
interviews, and re-tweet our posts to help us spread the word.
I always like to point out that Piolo Pascual was key
to the evolution of ABS-CBN Film Restoration’s advocacy
campaign. We were coincidentally traveling in Nice, France,
sometime in 2011. While telling him about our plans and
asking for his support, about two minutes in, Piolo told me
to stop and said yes, which started the ball rolling for us. At
the heart of what we do are Charo and Ricky, who guided and
inspired us from the beginning.
SHORT TAKE
Three years into the ABS-CBN Film Restoration
initiative, we decided it was due for a makeover with a catchy
handle that summed up everything we wanted to accomplish.
In one of our regular brainstorming sessions, promo producer
Ian Faustino came up with Sagip Pelikula (ABS-CBN was then
already using Sagip Kapamilya), which immediately stuck, and it’s
a banner we have used since, recently tweaking it a bit to ABS-
CBN Sagip Pelikula.
On August 18, 2015, Ricky, Manet, Joey Romero,
Manolo Abaya, Cecille Castillo, Laurice Guillen, Joey Reyes,
Mel Chionglo, Romy Vitug, Sunny and Sherbet Ilacad, Ronald
Arguelles, filmmakers and advocates all, joined us for the launch
of Sagip Pelikula, using their influence and status to give our
advocacy more gravitas.
Over the years, many more have joined sharing the Sagip
Pelikula efforts with their followers and fan bases, an effective
tool to bridge generations—theirs and ours. As is often the case,
all it took was a call and the most common reply was, “Tell us
when and where, and we will be there.” Piolo Pascual, Ricky Lee,
Angel Aquino, Boy Abunda, Nora Aunor, Maja Salvador, Atom
Araullo, Roderick Paulate, Paulo Avelino, Aiko Melendez, Alex
Medina, Antoinette Jadaone, Bembol Roco, Carlos Siguion-
Reyna, Cherry Pie Picache, Dan Villegas, Iza Calzado, Jaime
Fabregas, Jerry Lopez-Sineneng, Jess Mendoza, Joey Reyes, Junel
Hernando, Mae Cruz Alviar, Marc Solis, Mon Confiado, Nonie
Buencamino, Raquel Villavicencio, Ricky Davao, Romy Vitug,
Rory Quintos, Shaina Magdayao, Tirso Cruz III, Vangie Labalan,
Zanjoe Marudo, and Eddie Garcia were all part of our black-and- ABS-CBN Film Archives Vault and Footage
white campaign. Many others, titans and legends of Philippine
Cinema—Rosa Rosal, Marita Zobel, Delia Razon, Bienvenido
Lumbera, Mike De Leon, Chito Roño, Christopher De Leon,
Vilma Santos, Maricel Soriano, Olivia Lamasan, John Lloyd
Cruz, Bea Alonzo, Richard Gomez, Dawn Zulueta, Aga Muhlach,
Lea Salonga, Fiel Zabat, Jun Latonio, Nikki Valdes, Rio Locsin,
Lorna Tolentino, Zsa Zsa Padilla, Angelica Panganiban, Bibeth
Orteza, Caridad Sanchez, Lucy Quinto, Peque Gallaga, Albert
Martinez, Butch Perez, Snooky Serna, Elizabeth Oropesa, Alma
Moreno, Eric Quizon, Cherry Pie Picache, Marvin Agustin, Jolina
Magdangal, Sharmaine Arnaiz, Mike Idioma, Joel Torre, Richard
Quan, Kuh Ledesma, Cathy Garcia Molina, Marc Solis, Camille
Prats, Judy Ann Santos, Ryan Agoncillo, Cholo Laurel, Eugene
Domingo, and countless others have lent their voices broadening
the reach of our advocacy.
I have always found the most fulfillment when I am
approached by a Gen Z thanking ABS-CBN and Sagip Pelikula
for giving them the opportunity to watch a classic. “Maganda pala
siya.” “Iba po pala ang mga sine noon.” “’Yan ho pala ang pinaguusapan
nila.” “Kaya pala siya tinawag na King of Comedy [referring to
Dolphy].” “Lolo ko po ‘yong isang artista at ngayon ko lang po siya
napanood.” Zsa Zsa Padilla and her daughters have gone to all our
screenings that feature her father, internationally-famous boxing
referee Carlos “Sonny” Padilla Jr., who was a leading actor during
141
 SHORT TAKE

ABS-CBN Film Archives & Restoration team at the C1 Originals 2019 The author at the International Gold Quill Award in Toronto, 2014

the LVN era. Rap Fernandez, Victor Silayan, Kiko Estrada, One of the greatest tragedies is for many of our
and other descendants also find new opportunity to watch the filmmakers to be forgotten, even with the honors they have
works of their legendary ancestors. heaped on the country or the craft they have employed to
document our history, culture, struggles, and journey as a
It doesn’t hurt that we gained more respect by winning
people. The Sagip Pelikula advocacy seeks to immortalize them
at the International Association of Business Communications’s
with our humble efforts so they will be forever remembered.
Gold Quill Awards in Toronto in 2014. We are one of only two
Philippine companies to receive the Award of Excellence. It’s We know that not everyone will appreciate the old.
sad that we are recognized more away from our shores than It’s simply not in our education, culture, or DNA. However,
here, but we were never as flashy by local standards. if we manage to impress and excite two to three of every ten
young minds, then that collective memory will continue to live
With the ABS-CBN franchise denial and the
on and be passed down instead of fading with our generation.
pandemic in 2020 severely diminishing our capabilities, we
That is the most important legacy we can leave behind, a
have pivoted on our strategy. While full restorations are off testament to a cinematic past full of life, color, history, and
the table, for now, we have brought back treasures from more culture that defines our Filipino identity.
than a half-century ago, notably Prinsipe Teñoso (1954), Badjao
(1957), Malvarosa (1958), Biyaya ng Lupa (1959), Sandata at
Pangako (1961), and Ibong Adarna (1941) and Giliw Ko (1939),
two of only five pre-World War II movies known to survive.
Not pristine expensive restorations, but new 4K scans and
enhancements we can do in-house still give the films their best
look since they were originally released in cinemas.

Leo P. Katigbak set up the ABS-CBN Film Archives in 1994 and currently oversees its restoration efforts under the Sagip
Pelikula campaign. From 2008 to 2015, he was Chief of Staff under the Office of the President and handled Special Projects,
including ABS-CBN’s Content Management Initiative and a planned ABS-CBN Museum. He has over 35 years of experience
in television, having started in 1986 as a writer, editor, director, and producer on a wide variety of shows such as Penthouse Live, Oh
No! It’s Johnny, Maalaala Mo Kaya, Tatak Pilipino, Ryan Ryan Musikahan, and Okay Ka, Fairy Ko! before moving on to head
programming in the channel Studio 23, and subsequently becoming its Managing Director.

142 143
 ANGLES
A
young Lumad named Podong (Henyo Ehem)
wants to become a professional guide to
Mount Apo. He knows the trail even with
his eyes closed. He concocts life-saving remedies from plants
growing in the forest. He knows which stream is poisoned and
which one is safe to drink from. Perhaps most important of
all, he is a charming companion, multilingual with his jests,
and does not think being a porter is akin to servitude; instead,
he ascribes to it the valuable role of a custodian. Wise to the
ways his people have been mistreated by usurpers, he is quick
to trade barbs with anyone who undermines him. He can talk
his way out of a sticky situation, even when facing four men
twice his size. Nature, to him, is a spiritual force worthy of
awe and respect. However, Podong’s neighbors, who are guides
by profession, look down on him. To them, he’s a nuisance,
another kid who wants to grow up too fast. Podong doesn’t
have a horse of his own, let alone a cellular phone that he could
use to communicate with tourists.
At a campsite where guides converge, cellular
phones wrapped in cellophane are hung on a tree to catch the
elusive network signal. Podong plucks one like low-hanging
fruit and browses the message inbox. The phone, it happens,
belongs to Bulkan, an older member of their village and also a
constant tormentor. After reading a message from a potential
client looking for a porter, Podong arranges a climb. Bulkan
eventually finds out, leaving Podong with a blackened eye.
The next morning, Podong steals Bulkan’s horse in retaliation
and proceeds to the base camp. Meanwhile, Bulkan and three
others search for the missing horse and its thief, believing the
culprit is only a day or a few hours ahead of them.
If Arbi Barbarona’s third feature The Highest Peak
(2020) followed only Podong’s adventures, including his antics
with a few of his dodgy but hilarious neighbors, there would
still be plenty to look at, and perhaps even more to learn about
the lives of people living around Mount Apo.
Alas, there is an outsider.
At the start of the film, David Justimbaste (Dax
Alejandro) appears like another hiker from Manila with a
bucket list to tick. However, a series of flashbacks reveal a
complicated life. He works as a CEO of a mining corporation
in Davao City. His wife and son live elsewhere. He acquired
a house and lot so they could resettle. Over a video call, his
wife tells David that their English-speaking son “dreams of
climbing the highest peak.” David promises him that they will
soon realize this dream. At work, David and his colleagues
weigh the advantages of open pit, as opposed to shaft, mining.
Belinda, a female colleague, opposes the highly destructive
option. But the other men on the table dismiss her. (Later in
the pantry, the same men remark that women have no place
in the mining industry.) David reminds them of the bottom
line: “The cheapest way to mine, and the fastest way to deliver
144
products to the market.” The company plans to operate
somewhere within the vicinity of Mount Apo.
As David’s story unfolds, misfortunes pile up. He
survives an accident that kills both his wife and son. He slides
into depression and does not show up at work for days. He has
also been having an affair with Belinda, which compounds his
guilt of having survived. The mining firm nearly goes bankrupt.
To keep stocks afloat, his business partners buy him out of his
share. On top of all this, David suffers from what hopefully is a
case of temporary blindness, his eyes damaged by the accident.
In search of solace, he resolves to fulfill his promise to conquer
the highest peak.
After decades of stagnation, more stories from
Mindanao and Sulu are finally being told in Philippine
cinema. The digital independent filmmaking movement in
the mid-2000s began a prolific period. One criticism of a
number of these films often concerns representation. Some
filmmakers, particularly those working in the National Capital
Region, glamorize what is perceived as “authentic” in the
clothes, customs, and beliefs of Indigenous Peoples, obscure
the root cause of armed conflicts, or reduce these to religious
differences. Even some films made by Mindanao-born directors
are not entirely faultless.1
The strength of Barbarona’s filmmaking lies in his
familiarity with terrains and his deep understanding of the
complexities with which Indigenous Peoples are enmeshed.
This intimacy with the landscape powers his kinetic and
insightful first feature Tu Pug Imatuy (2017), which follows
Ubonay, a Talaingod woman who escapes and triumphantly
turns the tables on her military torturers. Having worked
as a cinematographer for acclaimed directors such as Arnel
Mardoquio and Gutierrez Mangansakan II, Barbarona’s
graceful camerawork conveys the soaring hills and lush jungles
of the Pantaron Range. The grandeur of nature is set in contrast
with the ruthlessness of state forces who violate a Lumad
couple, terrorize women and children, and tie a volunteer
teacher to a wooden post, among other atrocities.
In The Highest Peak, Barbarona pairs off a Lumad
with a Tagalog migrant to create an instructive and comic
“buddy film” set in Mount Apo. Like Tu Pug Imatuy and his
second film Kaaway sa Sulod (2019), The Highest Peak tells a
story “rooted in the realities of [the characters’] place.”2 Unlike
in those films, however, violence is sublimated in the form of
a series of earthquakes. While also revisiting the subjects of
armed insurgency and the enforced closure of Lumad schools,
Barbarona adds an ecological dimension to these linked
incidents.
As they pause to drink water from a safe source,
Podong shows David the rash on his torso as proof of
contamination. Absurdly, David scolds him, “Kayo kasi, hindi
ninyo iniingatan kung anong mayroon kayo [You don’t you
ANGLES
Podong shows David a wild flower in the Mt. Apo habitat. All images are used
with permission
The flower reappears in David’s dream about reuniting with his family
Bulkan threatens Podong after the younger porter has stolen his horse
take care of what you have].” Podong shuts him down
by pointing out how some rivers are already tainted with
pesticides and mercury. Earlier, David sees a farmer spraying
chemicals on the soil around the mountain. Once in a while
tremors, which may be caused by explosions, interrupt their
journey.
Barbarona and screenwriter Arnel Mardoquio
evince political commentary with levity. Even Bulkan gets
to reference, with a line of dialogue, the infamous local
televangelist who infamously said in public that he could
command an earthquake to stop. In an earlier scene, the
young Lumad guide throws a textbook at David. He could
use the pages to wipe himself after squatting in the bushes.
When asked what the book is for, Podong says, “Human na
kog basa ana [I’m done reading that].” In truth, the school
he used to attend has been closed down. That Podong is
carrying a textbook with him on the way to Mount Apo is
both humorous and poignant.
As Henyo Ehem plays him, Podong is always at
ease, even with a fart joke, or when he is made to deliver
poster slogan lines (“[Ang] pagdaut sa kinaiyahan, mao na
ang pinakadako kaayo nga krimen”). Podong is terrific when
he reacts to David’s condescending questions. When David
asks him why he understands Tagalog, Podong retorts,
“Sapagkat datapwat, ako’y nakakaunawa ng salitang ugat.”
In another scene, Podong asks David if the
meatloaf he’s eating was made in China. David tells him
the canned good is US-made. “Kon made in China man
god [Because if it’s from China],” Podong continues,
“karton ang sulod, gipalasang karne lang ni [this is actually
cardboard made to taste good].” He tells David that his
father used to work in a food manufacturing warehouse
in Cebu where, apparently, horse meat is used for making
meatloaf. “Mali ako[Then I’m wrong],” David teases. “Made
in Cebu pala yan. [It’s actually from Cebu].” The talk segues
to the revelation that Podong has stolen his neighbor’s
horse. David asks whether the Lumad knows that what he
did is a crime. Podong responds that the real crime is the
destruction of the environment.
A striking moment takes place as they descend
from the peak. Left inside the tent, David overhears
Podong speaking to his parents who, as it happens, are
guerrilla fighters. The next day, he asks Podong why his
parents joined the rebellion. “Sundalo sila sa kabos [They
are fighters for the people],” Podong says, “…para wasakin
nila ang minahan ng mga dayuhan dito sa Mindanao […
they need to stop the mining companies of settlers here in
Mindanao].” David, who used to run a mining firm, could
barely respond. Their longing for family—one separated
from his by a tragic accident, the other by war—deepens
the affinity between David and Podong. When they finally
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meet Bulkan, David offers to compensate for Pondong’s

transgression. Still, it is Podong’s quick thinking that
undoes Bulkan’s scheme.

With Podong’s help, David learns about the

ills that the Indigenous People around Mount Apo are
confronted with. He realizes that the very industry to
which he once belonged has brought suffering to the likes
of Podong. When he meets the members of Podong’s
community, David attests that Podong is a capable and
responsible guide. He thanks Podong for opening his
eyes (even though he literally could no longer see). David
Residents in a community near Mt. Apo react as the ground shakes
alludes to having taken so much from the people, but never
discloses the extent of his involvement. After the climb,
Podong proves to the community that he has grown up.
Even Bulkan has had a change of heart. The film ends with
a montage of a blind David living among Podong and his
people, while in the background, Podong sings a Manobo
song.

This neat and happy resolution feels hesitant,

if not unsettling, as though the climb, Podong, and the
standoff with Bulkan’s group were all but a figment of
David’s conscience. The sense of dissatisfaction stems from
an uneven treatment of contexts. David’s assortment of
Podong contemplates after Bulkan leaves him with a blackened eye David walks after Podong as they near the summit
suffering overshadows Podong’s predicaments.

Since Barbarona locates David’s afflictions in

Davao City, events that take place here are conspicuously
earnest. The lively trek is interspersed with ponderous
sequences inside cubicles and conference rooms. Whenever
David is shown drifting aimlessly around a subdivision,
wallowing inside an empty house, or returning to a junk
shop to view the wreckage of his car, Ehem and Dax
Alejandro’s effortless rapport is missed. The film’s sly humor
recedes as murky personal history saddles the journey with
emotional baggage. The nonchronological arrangement
of these episodes seem to represent David’s fractured
consciousness and failing vision. The script, too, affects
a stilted register. When David finds out that he lost his
position, he reminds Paul, the new CEO, that he’s “still one
of the legitimate owners of this company.” Paul corrects
him: “Not anymore, man,” and goes on to expound, more
for the benefit of the audience, how it came to be so.
Apart from disrupting the film’s tone and rhythm,
these intrusive memories aggravate the unequal relations
between David and Podong. The migrant is afforded, no
matter how overwrought, an interior life. In comparison,
the porter’s homesickness, his sadness over the destruction
of their school, and his fears over environmental ruin are
merely hinted at. There have been plenty of investigations
into the sorrows of an urbanite, especially one from Manila,
but Podong’s contemporary trickster hero rarely gets his
chance.
With his mental wounds laid bare, David’s trauma
becomes paramount. His penance curiously intimates the
John Bengan teaches writing and literature at the University
settler’s guilt of having displaced Indigenous Peoples in
of the Philippines Mindanao. He co-edited Ulirát: Best
Mindanao. But instead of unpacking this guilt and going
Contemporary Stories in Translation from the Philippines (2021).
beyond private concerns, David bestows needless gifts. After
He is a member of the Young Critics Circle Film Desk.
finally managing self-blame, David gives Podong his dead son’s
shoes. He also tries to give him an expensive watch. Before
they part ways, he even leaves his backpack. Podong’s role as a Endnotes
“porter” suddenly takes on another meaning, which is that of a
receptacle for migrant excess. The mountain, home to the deity 1 Jay Jomar F. Quintos, “Mindanaw and Sulu Cinema as Postcolonial
The terrain nearby the peak of Mt. Apo
Critique,” in The Invisibility of the Visible: Emancipated Mindanaw
Apo Sandawa, becomes a repository for David’s woes. and Sulu in Philippine Cinema, ed. Jay Jomar F. Quintos (Davao City:
University of the Philippines Mindanao, 2020), 1-26.
So much importance has been given—and rightfully
so—on the ethical representation of those whose realities 2 Arbi Barbarona, “Lumad Spirituality and Justice in Tu Pug Imatuy,”
in The Invisibility of the Visible: Emancipated Mindanaw and Sulu in
seldom appear in moving images, yet only a handful of films
Philippine Cinema, ed. Jay Jomar F. Quintos (Davao City: University of
have managed to tell their story with thoughtfulness and a the Philippines Mindanao, 2020), 61-64.
sense of responsibility. The Highest Peak is commendable for
shifting the focus on a transactional moment between the
Settler and the Lumad. But beyond the shock of contact lies a
range of experiences still to be probed as these identities regard
one another.
Podong guides David who has gone blind

146 147
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A
ccording to Jason Tan Liwag, in 2019, one
feature film was consistently present in
several lists of Best Filipino Films of the Year,
or even the decade: Glenn Barit’s Cleaners.1 This QCinema
International Film Festival grantee and awardee is known for
its quirky visual treatment. The entire film is presented using
digitized photocopies of the edited film, with images selectively
and manually colorized using highlighters. Essentially, the film
revolves around high school life, a subject matter favored in
The entirety of Aliens Ata was shot using a drone. All images are used with
mainstream cinema as a potential milieu for barkada movies
permission
and a launching pad for love teams, but clearly, Barit wanted to
present high school through his unique lens.

In an article by Apa Agbayani, Barit recalled that

growing up in Tuguegarao, Cagayan, he was constantly exposed
to Manila-centric mainstream media, feeding him with
narratives and events that, for him, were not relevant to his life
then.2 Cleaners was shot entirely in Tuguegarao, featuring a cast
of non-professional actors from the same place. He wanted
to represent high school life as he experienced it in the 2000s
in his hometown while also using the texture of those times.
Justifying the decision behind the visual treatment of Cleaners,
Barit said in an article by Mario Alvaro Limos, “Since this film
follows a thematic arc of what it means to be clean, I wanted
to play with the film’s form in a way that coincides with this
theme, as well.”3
Before Cleaners, Barit has already experimented with
film form in his short films. In an interview hosted by the
Cultural Center of the Philippines, he described his films as
makulit (playful) yet sincere.4 His cinematic treatment has
given new takes on subjects repeatedly tackled in cinema, like
the experience of the diaspora at home in Aliens Ata (2017),
nostalgia and domesticity in Nangungupahan (2018), and
solitude and finding the meaning of life in Maski Papano
(co-directed with Che Tagyamon, 2021). In this article, I
examine these three short films and describe how Barit’s
uncompromising and playful treatments defamiliarized
conventional themes, forcing us to look at them through
unexpected perspectives and providing us with an emotional
and, at the same time, cerebral experience.
Dead People and OFWs as Aliens
Aliens Ata (2017) opens with a drone shot of a
landscape set in the province. From a bird’s eye view, we
see the father teaching his sons how to ride a bicycle. The
camera is so distant that the vast landscape dwarfs the human
characters, like action figures walking on a green background.
Throughout the film, the audience borrows a God-like
perspective, watching humans down below and listening to
their conversations.
We figure the father takes care of his two sons while
the mother works abroad. When the father dies, the two boys
agree that he has ascended to the sky and turned into an alien.
The mother briefly visits the two boys, and before returning to
work in Singapore, she tells them that, from now on, they will
live with their lola (grandmother). The film ends with the two
boys watching the sky, waving to a passing aircraft. The younger
boy asks if their mother has become an alien, too, to which the
older brother has no answer.
According to a recent Philippine Statistics Authority
(PSA) report, there were 1.77 million Overseas Filipino
Workers (OFWs) from April to September 2020, 59.6
percent of whom were women. The same report reveals
that the most significant number of OFWs come from the
provinces (91.6%), with CALABARZON (18.5%), Central
Luzon (11.8%), and Western Visayas (9.2%) as the regions
with the highest number of OFWs.5 Aliens Ata contributes
to the narratives of migrant workers, a notable subject in
Filipino films. However, this short film is a departure from the
treatment of popular films like Milan (2004) and Dubai (2005)
that foreground the quest for love over the real challenges
that OFWs experience in the foreign land and the families
they leave behind. Rowena Festin critiques how these films
romanticize working abroad by highlighting migrant labor as
a form of sacrifice so that Filipinos back home can experience
better lives and by showcasing the beauty of foreign lands to
make it look appealing for work.6 According to Festin, the
use of celebrities portraying OFW characters also adds to the
idealization of working abroad as they look more like tourists
than workers while supposedly performing blue-collar jobs.7
On the other hand, Barit distances us from the
visual appeal of OFW films by situating the narrative in the
Philippine regional landscape and positioning the camera, the
audience, in the sky. We do not see the faces of the characters,
and we only see them through their movements on the ground.
The aerial shot makes the characters appear small since the
landscape fills the frame. An angle usually used for establishing
a scene, the aerial shot is used throughout the film to present
a poignant story of an OFW who left and those she has left

148 149
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The brothers wave to a passing aircraft
behind—her children. Nevertheless, despite the smallness of
the children in the film, we can clearly hear their voices. The
characters might be faceless, but their emotions are intact, and
we can still feel their pain from a distance.
The aerial shot that provides a powerful view of the
subject also makes us helpless viewers of an OFW’s family on
the verge of detachment, of two young boys deprived of their
parents’ guidance and closeness. When the children imagine
their dead father and OFW mother and liken both to aliens
in the sky, the film highlights the sense of loss the absence
of OFWs introduces to their loved ones’ lives. Neither of the
parents is imagined as dead, yes, but they are also equally
imagined as aliens. The children must be on their own and
accept financial support as an indicator of their mother’s love.
We understand that working abroad is a sacrifice to be made
by the OFW and is not just a personal decision. For many, it is
difficult to find career options in the country that can sustain
a family, especially in the provinces, as indicated in the PSA
report. In seven minutes, Aliens Ata creates a unique viewing
space for us to ponder the OFW experience, a supposedly
familiar situation.
Presence in Absence
In Nangungupahan (2018), we see the interior of a
rented house. The camera is planted in a corner, and throughout
the film, we only see one angle, featuring the house’s main
door, living room, and a part of the bedroom. Suddenly,
scenes inside irregular-shaped frames randomly appear and
disappear as if superimposed. These scenes show vital moments
150
from the tenants who have once lived there: a newly married
couple, a struggling artist and writer, two young brothers, and
a grandmother and her help. There is also an instance when
the apartment is empty, while an old man is seen creeping in,
smelling, and feeling the space. The scenes are like puzzle pieces
in the rooms and corners where they happened—the artists
killing cockroaches, the man stacking the encyclopedia on the
shelf, the boys sharing a brick game, the grandma grieving
for her dead cat, and so on. They are people not connected by
kinship and lived in the apartment at different time frames, but
their auras are intertwined in the same space.
The film does not attempt to present a linear narrative
or even a storyline. Instead, the fragments of moments, the
voices of those who lived in the house, and the dramatic score
evoke nostalgia. Nangungupahan will resonate with people
renting apartments, moving into an empty space, unpacking
things, buying furniture, unfolding their lives momentarily, and
eventually moving on and leaving the old house empty again to
welcome new tenants. People carry the memories with them,
but the memories and energies linger inside the house.
Like in Aliens Ata, a novel perspective is thrust upon
us in Nangungupahan. We are the walls—the eyes and the ears—
of the house. Sound plays an essential role in hinting at how
the house gathers time, probably across decades. Aside from
the voice of the tenants, the film contains audio clips from the
proclamation of Martial Law in 1972, theme songs of children’s
TV shows like Batibot (1984-2003) and Sinesk’wela (1994-
2004), the SM Department Store jingle (We’ve got it all for you),
the honks of cars, and other sounds. The camera’s proximity to
the fragments of images mixed with the voices of people who
ANGLES
Different people from different time frames converge in one space in Nangungupahan.
once lived in the house makes the memories alive.
Aside from evoking nostalgia, Nangungupahan also
comments on urban life, our internal migration story. The city
is often perceived as a place for better opportunities, and it is
usually people from the provinces who opt to relocate near
areas of employment and study. Not all can buy and own a
house, and it is common for people to transfer addresses in
short periods of time.
The city has become a melting pot of different
backgrounds and traditions. People keep up with the speed of
life and the constant changes happening in the environment.
As a space of supposed continuous development, the city is also
a space of impermanence. It is not surprising to observe people
come and go and see places built and then destroyed.
The artist expresses the film’s thesis in a scene where
he bids farewell to his friend. The artist gives his painting to
his writer-friend as a parting gift. The artist says the painting
symbolizes all the cockroaches they killed in the apartment.
The writer replies: but there is only one cockroach in the
painting. The artist answers that even if you do not see them, it
does not mean that they do not exist. The last frame hints that
the house has been demolished and turned into a shopping
mall, perhaps another SM Mall, a structure that dominates the
cityscapes of Metro Manila, hiding behind and beneath the
lives of transient laborers and contractual precariats. Finally,
the scenes and memories inside the frames stop appearing,
interrupted by “progress.” If the structure is no longer there,
will the memories of its tenants survive?
Masks Have Feelings Too
A directorial collaboration between Barit and Che
Tagyamon, the five-minute Maski Papano is an exploration of
the meaning of life amid the COVID-19 pandemic. The film
follows the journey of face masks after being used and disposed
of by their owners.
The artist bids farewell to his writer-friend in Nangungupahan.
The part-live-action, part-stop-animation short film
personifies masks like sentient beings capable of feeling and
thinking. After being thrown, the protagonist finds himself
in a pile of trash and realizes that “his” human has replaced
him. “Everything reminds me of my failure, of my lack of purpose,”
says the face mask in Filipino after losing a job protecting his
human’s nasal and oral cavities from droplets. In his quest for
life’s meaning, the mask-protagonist finds solace in fellow
disposed masks who also struggle with their situation. They
create a community that fosters support for one another.
Maski Papano uses humor and wit in representing
a depressing situation. Images of sentimental face masks
illustrate the feeling of worthlessness and uncertainty during,
especially at the beginning of, the COVID-19 pandemic. The
loss of mobility meant losing livelihood for many Filipinos. It
also meant a loss of hope and the feeling of uncertainty for the
future.
After being discarded, the masks find ways to
reclaim their worth and dignity through the help of fellow
brokenhearted friends, discovering new hobbies like baking
cookies, and finding meaning through shared activities, like
exercising and doing yoga. The masks became essential for
mobility when the world slowed due to the pandemic. Wearing
face masks might be seen as an inconvenience to daily living,
but it also brings the possibility of continuing a (new) normal
life. The film suggests that we may feel like trash amid the
pandemic, but it is within us and the help of our community to
survive and make sense of this world.
Barit’s (Use of ) Voice
The short films discussed in this article articulate
familiar issues with depth and irony using unconventional
cinematic spaces and techniques. Aliens Ata feels intimate even
if the narrative unfolds entirely from the sky. Nangungupahan,
from the collage of images, offers a sense of wholeness in
fragments. Finally, Maski Papano reimagines the travails of
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A community of discarded face masks in Maski Papano.

humanity and the importance of community through animated

close-ups of disposable face masks. Much of the discussion has
focused on Barit’s images, but his films are also made potent
through his use of sound, especially the element of voice.

In all short films, the voice makes us “see” through the

depth of the narratives. While the shots of landscapes in Aliens
Ata express physical and emotional distance, the conversations
between the characters make us aware of the events in their
lives and their internal struggles. Barit gives these innocent
“small humans” voices rarely heard in cinema. The voices in
Nangungupahan are from snippets of conversations between
people from different time frames, absorbed by the walls of
an old house. The voices help the images fulfill their function
as memories that linger through the years. The absence of a
voice at the end of the film signifies an erasure of memories
with the destruction of the place. Maski Papano’s talking face
masks make these disposable items act like us, humans who
feel depressed and worthless but have the tenacity to move
on despite the pandemic. In a way, the prominent use of voice
in Barit’s short films gives agency to the voiceless, whether
physical structures and disposable items that are supposedly
inanimate or the people whose voices are usually unheard.
In Maski Papano, the protagonist discovers that he has been replaced.
David R. Corpuz is an Associate Professor in the Digital Film
program of the School of Media Studies, Mapua University-
Makati. He has a Ph.D. in Philippine Studies at De La Salle
University Manila and an MA Media Studies-Film at the
University of the Philippines Film Institute. His films have
been awarded at the Gawad CCP para sa Alternatibong
Pelikula at Video (for “Read-Only Memory,” 2022) and
Cinemalaya Philippine Independent Film Festival (for “The
Ordinary Things We Do,” 2014) and have been selected in local
and international film festivals.

Endnotes

1 Jason Tan Liwag, “Revisited: The colorful and comforting world of ‘Cleaners’,” Rappler, September 21, 2021, accessed on October 15, 2022, rappler.com/
entertainment/movies/cleaners-review/.
2 Apa Agbayani, “How ‘Cleaners’ became one of the best Filipino films of 2019,” CNN Philippines, December 6, 2019, accessed on October 15, 2022
cnnphilippines.com/life/entertainment/Film/2019/12/6/cleaners-glenn-barit-interview.html
3 Mario Alvaro Limos, “This Filipino Director is Making a Film Using Photocopied and Highlighted Stills He photocopied 43,000 frames and colored them with
highlighters,” Esquire Philippines, September 4, 2019, accessed on October 15, 2022, esquiremag.ph/culture/arts-and-entertainment/qcinema-cleaners-a00293-
20190904-lfrm
4 Cultural Center of the Philippines, “Cinemalaya Campus x Short Talks with Glenn Barit (Maski Papano),” August 8, 2021, YouTube Video, 3:08, youtu.be/
YVmrtlftT1E
5 Dennis S. Mapa, “2020 Overseas Filipino Workers (Final Results),” Philippines Statistics Authority, March 7, 2020, accessed on October 15, 2022, psa.gov.ph/
content/2020-overseas-filipino-workers-final-results
6 Rowena Festin, “Ang Naratibo ng Paglikas sa mga Pelikulang Dubai at Milan,” Malay 20, no. 2 (2008): 79-86.
7 Ibid.

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(Clockwise) Screenshots from the online events of the 2020 Binisaya Film Festival, 2020 Mindanao Film Festival, 2020 Pelikultura, and 2021 Cinema Rehiyon.
All images are used with permission
T
his essay examines how some Philippine
regional film festivals adapted during the
height of the COVID-19 pandemic from
2020 to 2021 and their considerations moving forward. It looks
into how the changes in the visibility and accessibility of these
regional films influenced programming decisions, manners of
appreciation, audience consideration, and opportunities for film
education.
Regional film festivals are characterized as those that
are organized outside Metro Manila. Since these festivals had
to shift online, it is observable how the pandemic paved the
way for these regional films to be more accessible to wider
audiences inside and outside the Philippines, as long as there
is internet access, presumably improving the appreciation and
familiarity of these kinds of films from the regions. I am from
Manila, I have only been able to appreciate regional films more
when these film festivals became available online, as it is costly
and time-consuming for me to attend the physical events
organized in the regions. But when they were offered online
exhibition, I appreciated these regional films since they became
more accessible to me. But perhaps an interesting question is:
How did the change in space change the festival programming,
appreciation, audience attitude, and opportunities for film
education?
When the pandemic hit the Philippines in March
2020, organizers of regional film festivals had to move to online
154
streaming platforms such as Facebook, YouTube, and Vimeo
to showcase films and conduct workshops, talks, and awarding
ceremonies because mass gatherings were prohibited. In this
essay, I examine the experiences of four regional film festivals:
Cinema Rehiyon (2021), Pelikultura: The Calabarzon Film
Festival (2020), Binisaya Film Festival (2020), and Mindanao
Film Festival (2020), by interviewing their founders, festival
directors, and programmers. These festivals were chosen for
their geographical representation and scope.
Film Festivals Before COVID-19
Cinema Rehiyon (CR), as with other regional film
festivals, had already established its position in nurturing the
plurality of cinematic expressions and cultural identities by
providing an exhibition venue for the often-neglected regional
cinema. In Katrina Ross Tan’s account, these film festivals
started when there was a growing interest in filmmaking in
regions that the mainstream industry in the National Capital
Region could not accommodate.1
Tan’s account mentioned that CR conducted
filmmaking workshops, discussions, and screenings, often
composed of competitions and exhibitions. As the flagship
project of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts
(NCCA) Cinema Committee in 2008, it was held in different
ANGLES
parts of the country, such as Davao, Bacolod, Los Baños, Manila,
and Dumaguete, among others. It showcased feature and short film
programs, panel discussions, fellowship, and networking events.2
It was also a gathering of invited filmmakers, festival organizers,
programmers, and other guests where they could build camaraderie.
The festival organizers usually paid for hotel accommodation and
airfare. However, they still had to limit their guests due to a tight
budget.
The Binisaya Film Festival (BFF), a smaller film festival, was
started by a group of Cebuano filmmakers in 2009 who conducted
screenings in Cebu City and organized guerilla screenings in various
areas in the region to promote these kinds of films to the masses.
They were able to screen in basketball courts, galleries, and under a
tree, among other locations. BFF is primarily self-funded and run by
volunteers.
Meanwhile, the Pelikultura, founded in 2010, is based in
the University of the Philippines Los Baños and caters primarily to
students. In the past editions of their festival, they invited college
and high school students from other universities and schools,
professionals, and other artist groups from the communities.
Organizers are usually composed of student and faculty volunteers.
On the other hand, the Mindanao Film Festival (MFF)
started with a series of workshops, in which the final product would
be short films that would then be shown in cinemas in Gaisano Mall
for one week. It claims to be the longest-running regional film festival
in the Philippines, which started in Davao in 2003.3 They also receive
support from NCCA and the Film Development Council of the
Philippines (FDCP).
Rudolph Alama, festival director of MFF since 2012,
said that one of their motivations in holding the MFF is to screen
their films in cinemas to generate earnings for filmmakers. Unlike
other regional film festivals, their audiences paid regular cinema
Film screenings from the 2017 Binisaya Film Festival.
fees to watch these films. A percentage of the profits then went
Photos from the Binisaya Facebook Page
to the filmmaker. Alama believes that filmmaking is not just an
art; filmmakers should also learn about the business side of the
craft.4 Getting revenue, although not so big, from their films was
the MFF’s way to encourage filmmakers to keep creating films.
He says that students and families would watch in cinemas, while
government officials and business people would also support the film
festival. As Alama puts it: “Na-realize nila ‘yong capabilities ng mga
Dabawenyo.”5
These regional film festivals bring awareness and
appreciation to different audiences of these kinds of films from
the regions. In the case of Pelikultura, according to Tan, although
students were required to watch these films at first, they eventually
became very curious and interested in the films.6 For Binisaya,
according to Deligero, although it is challenging for them to promote
regional films to the masses who are used to watching romantic
comedies, they kept holding guerilla screenings in unusual spaces.7
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Some scenes from the 2020 Cinema Rehiyon held in Bicol, Philippines, a few
weeks before lockdowns were imposed due to COVID-19. Photos from the
Cinema Rehiyon Facebook Page
Uncertainties in the Time of COVID-19
When the government imposed the lockdowns, there
were many uncertainties for these regional film festivals, and
they almost did not push through. According to Tan, some
smaller regional film festivals also had to cancel or postpone
their events.8 Katrina Tan, founder of the Pelikultura, says:
“Originally ayaw namin mag-online festival kasi syempre
ano siya eh, bago siya. Highly reliant siya sa technology
and wala naman kaming ganung expertise. Katulad ng iba,
akala natin sandali lang yong pandemic, na the following
year, magbabalikan na tayo on-site.”9 Aside from this, it
was challenging for filmmakers to shoot on location due to
lockdowns and health protocols.
Keith Deligero, a founder of BFF, still had
uncertainties at the beginning of the pandemic even though
they had started screening their films online in 2013 when he
was experimenting and finding more ways to self-distribute
films. Deligero shares in an interview with Third World
Cinema Club in May 2020:
Feeling ko nga’ yong edition namin ng 2020 for
Binisaya baka nga babagsak siya [sa] online eh. ‘Di
ko sure if ready na ba tayo by October na lumabas ng
bahay at pumunta ng sinehan. Tsaka ‘di rin ako sure
kung gaano karami ang local na films ang magsa-
submit para doon. Una naming deadline ay June 12.
In-extend ng July 12, one month. Nag-call na ako ng
submission nung January palang. Tapos mayroon na
yata akong natanggap na dalawa pa lang bago pa nag-
quarantine. Ngayon na nag-quarantine, ang choice mo
nalang ay hindi gumawa or gumawa ng something
about quarantine. So ayun, sana makapag-isip sila
ng mga interesting na ideas during quarantine, at
makapag-submit sila sa deadline. Sana, para dumami.10
MFF was almost canceled. However, according to Alama, they
decided to push through because many were still submitting
films.11
156
Keith Deligero (upper left) announces that the festival will push through online
despite the pandemic. Screenshot from a video posted on May 21, 2020 and
uploaded on the Binisaya Facebook Page
The Online Space: Its Advantages
Since these regional film festivals had to shift online,
they explored the possibilities of online platforms. They used
YouTube, Vimeo, and Facebook as streaming platforms and
Zoom for film discussions and workshops. Pelikultura also
used the messaging application Discord to create engagement
between audiences and filmmakers.
One of the most obvious advantages of being online is
the expansion of audiences, making the films accessible not just
in different parts of the country but also worldwide wherever
there is internet access.
During their online festival, MFF screened and
scheduled films through Facebook and YouTube Livestream.
According to Alama, the festival registered more than 60,000
views on its online platform, the highest ever viewership for the
festival.12 The virtual screenings opened them to a much wider
global audience. According to Alama, their films definitely
became more accessible for audiences who could not go to
Davao City. He says that foreign audiences could also discover
them, and some films were even invited to international film
festivals.13
Tito Valiente, festival director for Cinema Rehiyon
2021, noted the “amazing” numbers of viewership when they
shifted online. Although CR traveled to different places, he
says they still have niche audiences limited to film communities
and enthusiasts. He says he met more new people from inside
and outside the Philippines when it was moved online.14
In a report produced by the NCCA, CR registered
a total of 12,266 plays or views on Vimeo from February 28,
2021, until April 4, 2021. 92% of the views came from the
Philippines, but the films were watched in 29 countries. Their
Facebook page reached 11,211 views, while their account
garnered 26,900 impressions on Twitter.15
ANGLES
Cinema Rehiyon uploads its films on the Vimeo Channel of the NCCA’s National Committee on
Cinema. Regional films can be accessed for free with a promo code. Screengrab from the NCCA
National Committee on Cinema
Viewers clicked the play button more than once, 1.5 times on average; 647
(93%) of total VOD rentals are from the Philippines. Screenshot from the
NCCA report 16
Deligero notes the higher viewership online. In 2020,
they mounted two major screening events, and the audience
turnout was way better than the physical screenings. They used
Facebook Live and Vimeo on Demand as streaming platforms
for their films. Deligero says that there was a big difference in
terms of the numbers. Their online viewers reached a thousand
views, unlike during a physical event attended by only around
a hundred or fewer people. Many participated during the
talks and their opening and closing ceremonies. He said the
higher numbers made the filmmakers happy as more people
appreciated their films.17
For all festivals, there was a higher submission of films
from inside and outside the Philippines, and the shareable
content for calls online may have contributed to this. “Based
on the submissions among filmmakers, meron kaming entries
na from people na hindi namin kilala eh. I think that’s one
evidence na nakapag-reach out ka beyond our usual network,”
Tan says.18
Opportunities for film education also expanded.
When CR launched its global kickoff in 2021, it offered four
free masterclasses wherein participants were required to register
to secure a slot. Those who registered participated on Zoom,
while others watched via Facebook live. Pelikultura, on the
other hand, launched two new components of the film festival
in 2020: a film criticism workshop and a film production grant.
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Tan says she preferred conducting film discussions and panels
only on Zoom and not broadcasted elsewhere, which helped
build the community since there was a freer flow of discussion
without being conscious of who might be watching. “So there
was that element na we wanted to duplicate as much as possible
‘yong experience ng live sa on-site doon sa online, which was
difficult to do.”19 And because everything was online, it became
easier for filmmakers and speakers to attend the workshops
because they were not required to travel anymore, as many of
them were working. There was network-building, especially
with filmmakers from other places in the Philippines and
abroad. As for Pelikultura, they invited guests and filmmakers
who were not based in the Philippines.
Aside from that, holding film festivals online helped
small film festivals like BFF. It is much cheaper because there
is no need to pay for the venue, staff, and other logistical
requirements for a physical event. Less human resources were
also required.
In a press release by the organizers, it said that CR
2021 screened 130 films from different regions for a total of 36
hours through the Vimeo platform Video on Demand, which
audiences could access for free through a promo code.20 After
the event, some of the filmmakers agreed to leave their films
online indefinitely or until the organizer decided to remove
the film from the platform. Audiences can now access these
regional films anytime and anywhere.
Global Audience and Fluid Boundaries
The shift to online platforms made some
programmers and curators question what regional cinema
means. Valiente observes that online technology may have
redefined the concept of CR. When they shifted online in
2021, they started accommodating filmmakers from the
National Capital Region, an issue before the pandemic.
Valiente says that the geographical influence and “regionalistic”
attitude dissipated because of the absence of physical space. For
example, they accepted a film about Bicol, made by a Bicolano
filmmaker based in Manila. Before the pandemic, it would
have been a big issue, but when CR moved online, it became
acceptable because the concept of space had blurred. He notes:
“This is really what’s happening. Identities are subverted by
technology.” Boundaries and cultures are more fluid online, he
adds.21
When CR launched its global kickoff through the
online platform in 2021, Valiente said in a press release:
“Cinema Rehiyon will still be about films from the region,
now redefined according to the spaces created by online
engagement.”22
With this global scope and more fluid geographical
boundaries, Pelikultura had to shift its messaging online. Prior
158
to the pandemic, their approach to promotion and marketing
was intended for local audiences, but now they had to design
it for a global audience. “Paano mo ide-design ‘yong message
mo na hindi mae-alienate ‘yong iba, walang local flavor? Parang
naging generic copy or communication na,” says Tan.23 They
felt that they had mounted a new film festival altogether when
it moved online.
The Online Space: Its Disadvantages
For Alama, sustainability in filmmaking is very
important. Films would get revenue, even a little, by screening
them in cinemas. But when they shifted online, they had to
set that aside. They had to waive the fees and ask for donations
instead. Individual filmmakers also had to conduct their
fundraising efforts to support their craft.24
On the other hand, Tan notes that despite higher
viewership online, it is still not enough:
Naka-gain ng bagong audience, but I don’t think it is
that significant, compared to when we were based in
Los Baños, and we can see the audience are engaging,
and like they were really watching, lining up to see
the film, etc. Because in online you cannot monitor…
and online people are very distracted. Ang ikli ng
attention span… sige maraming views, pero what is
the quality of that viewing? Parang, natapos ba nila
yong program? Or you know, ang daming uncertain
eh, ang daming tanong.25
Deligero notes the distracted audience and high
competition online due to multiple tabs. He says that the
audience reception is better face-to-face because people are
more committed. “Planado talaga ng tao ‘yong pagpunta sa
venue. Kumbaga naglaan talaga sila ng oras para dito.” He adds
that it is also very saturated online. They want to promote their
films to the general masses; however competition is really hard
online. “Ang daming kalaban—TikTok, gamers, BTS, concerts.
Sobrang saturated. Madami ring webinars. Hindi ka nga
gagastos para pumunta ng venue pero struggle naman sa time
at internet connection,” Deligero says. Moreover, access to the
internet is a struggle for many.26
Despite the high turnout of audiences and
accessibility of films online, both Alama and Deligero believe
that simply showing their films online is not enough to
promote regional films and encourage people to watch them.
They both believe that promotion and marketing play an
important role, and support from the government or private
groups is needed. Deligero observes that their audiences
remain the same demographic as before, including students,
filmmakers, and film enthusiasts. He also says they would need
more budget to compete with the mainstream content. He
has thought of boosting their Facebook posts and getting a
ANGLES
social media influencer to host their events online to encourage
people to watch.27 Meanwhile, for Alama, continuous support
from the government and private individuals, like business
people, will keep their endeavors at the MFF afloat, especially
since their ultimate goal is to establish a stable creative film
industry in Davao.28
Tan notes that these online films are only accessible to
those with internet and devices, such as laptops and cellphones,
or those with enough mobile data to stream these films on their
phones.29
Although the online platform widened the scope of
audiences to national and global, it also became limited because
everyone and everything is now in the same space. As Tan
mentions, scheduling became harder, and overlapping time
resulted in higher competition. “So may gan’on ding issue sa
online, ang sikip nung festival calendar kasi lahat nasa online.
Nag-o-overlap talaga. Hindi katulad kapag onsite, nag-o-
overlap siya pero meron kang ibang audience, meron kang
on-site audience eh,” she says.30
There was a less meaningful sense of community
online. Deligero mentions feeling the synergy of the crowd
when it was on-site.31 Regional film festivals have become
an opportunity to network with other filmmakers, critics,
and enthusiasts and to promote films to different audiences.
Alama32 and Valiente33 miss the post-screening parties where
they would gather, have some drinks, and build camaraderie.
When they held their festival on-site in regions, the
local government units supported them and really made it an
occasion. “Nandoon 'yong grounding ng Cinema Rehiyon sa
lugar, sa kultura, at even sa politics kahit pa limited ang reach,”
Valiente says.34
Tan says that although they reached a broader
connection with filmmakers, the quality of the audience did
not improve. Although it was initially exciting that they
would reach more audiences, it was not enough to appreciate
regional films. “Parang ayaw namin na awareness lang. Parang
gusto namin na parang ano siya, kahit konti pero valued, yong
kunting audience na yun. Yun parang alam nila yong value ng
festival,” she says.35
Considerations in Post-Pandemic Film Festivals
The COVID-19 pandemic has presented new
opportunities and challenges on how regional film festivals
will be conducted moving forward in the post-pandemic new
normal.
According to Tan, as with the experience of other
global film festivals, the ideal step is to go hybrid.36 However,
it will still depend on financial and human resources and the
willingness of audiences to go out and watch films again in
cinemas. Health protocols should still be observed.
For a small film festival like the Binisaya, Deligero
says that the risks are still so significant, and they don’t have the
budget to cover swab tests, liabilities, and insurance. He says
they will probably continue the online screenings, but they are
also considering a hybrid micro-physical screening equivalent
to an installation that can be shown online.37
He notes that online screening is still more accessible,
especially considering the economic realities of watching inside
a cinema. “Regardless of saan siya ipalabas, it doesn’t matter
basta mapanood… Mas malaya sa labas [ng sinehan],” Deligro
says.38
Valiente has seen the benefits and value of an online
film screening, so he prefers to continue it even after the
pandemic. He is thinking of a hybrid model where it will be
done the way it was before, wherein they get to hold regional
film screenings offline, but it will already be streamed online.39
For MFF, they still do not have a definite plan.
Even if physical screenings are allowed, they are not sure if
the Gaisano Mall Cinema will still support them because the
business will need to recover the revenue it lost in the two
years of the pandemic. Alama is worried that the audiences
are used to watching online and wouldn’t want to pay to
watch in cinemas. That’s why they are now looking for ways
to make online screenings more sustainable. He is open to the
possibility of using a subscription service, but he still doubts if
people would pay and watch. For him, the future for MFF still
looks uncertain.40
Despite the wider reach online, Alama recognizes the
unique cinema experience of watching films on the big screen,
unlike watching them on smaller screens. “Mas maganda ang
audio, parang mas immersive siya as compared when watching
it on [a] laptop, tablet, or phone,” he says.41 However, post-
screening discussions became more productive as they did not
only include Davaoeños, but also audiences from different parts
of the Philippines and the world.
Meanwhile, Tan says they are thinking about
community screenings in open spaces, although it will still
boil down to the government’s policies.42 As for Pelikultura,
they still cannot resume as before until students are allowed to
return to universities for face-to-face classes.
Despite all these uncertainties and unpredictability,
Tan notes: “I think it would be an exciting next [couple of ]
years for the festival landscape because people will try different
things given the new challenges... That would define a new era,
I think, for the festival landscapes. Some will probably revert
back to doon on-site lang before… the pre-pandemic setup.
Some would probably explore hybrid; some would probably just
retain the online. We don’t know. So, I think I would like to see
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it that way, that it would be an exciting era, an exciting new Endnotes

chapter for our festival landscape. And even the global film 1 Katrina Tan, “Shaping Filipino Regional Cinema: Film Festival
festival landscape.”43 Programming in Cinema Rehiyon,” Pelikula: A Journal of Philippine
Cinema 4 (2019): 42.
2 Ibid.
3 Mindanao Film Festival, “About Mindanao Film Festival,” Mindanao
Film Festival [Facebook Page], accessed on September 17, 2022, web.
facebook.com/mindanaofilmfestival/about_details
4 Rudolph Alama, interviewed by Demie Dangla, Zoom interview,
December 28, 2021, quoted with permission.
5 Ibid.
6 Katrina Tan, interviewed by Demie Dangla, Zoom interview, January 3,
2022, quoted with permission.
Demie Dangla is an independent documentary filmmaker 7 Keith Deligero, interviewed by Demie Dangla, Zoom interview,
from Manila. She is the Video for Change Project Coordinator December 28, 2021, quoted with permission.
8 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
for EngageMedia, focusing on creating impact through films. 9 Ibid.
She is also a curator for Cinemata, a video platform for social 10 Keith Deligero, interviewed by John Tawasil and Princess Kinoc, “Third
and environmental films about the Asia-Pacific. World Cinema Club x Keith Deligero,” BINISAYA [www.facebook.com/
binisaya], May 21, 2020, accessed on September 17, 2022, web.facebook.
com/binisaya/videos/687445775381217/.
11 Alama, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
12 Rudolph Alama, “Charting a new frontier, MFF 2020,” Sunstar Davao,
January 7, 2021, accessed on September 17, 2022, www.sunstar.com.ph/
article/1882097/davao/entertainment/charting-a-new-frontier-mff-2020.
13 Alama, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
14 Tito Valiente, interviewed by Demie Dangla, Zoom interview, December
30, 2021, quoted with permission.
15 National Commission for Culture and the Arts, “CINEMA REHIYON
2021: RENTALS AND VIEWS” (Metro Manila, 2021), 1.
16 Ibid.
17 Deligero, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
18 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
19 Ibid.
20 Tito Valiente, “Cinema Rehiyon 2021 extends free screening,”
Cinema Rehiyon [Facebook Page], March 30, 2021, accessed on
September 17, 2022, web.facebook.com/cinemarehiyonofficial/
photos/a.117482498355355/3216486531788254/?_rdc=1&_rdr.
21 Valiente, Zoom interview, December 30, 2021.
22 Tito Valiente, “Cinema Rehiyon defies limits, redefines cinema,”
Cinema Rehiyon [www.facebook.com/cinemarehiyonofficial], February
25, 2021, accessed on September 17, 2022, web.facebook.com/
cinemarehiyonofficial/photos/pcb.3129565303813711/312952473381776
8/?_rdc=1&_rdr.
23 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
24 Alama, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
25 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
26 Deligero, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
27 Ibid.
28 Alama, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
29 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
30 Ibid.
31 Deligero, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
32 Alama, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
33 Valiente, Zoom interview, December 30, 2021.
34 Ibid.
35 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
36 Ibid.
37 Deligero, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
38 Ibid.
39 Valiente, Zoom interview, December 30, 2021.
40 Alama, Zoom interview, December 28, 2021.
41 Ibid.
42 Tan, Zoom interview, January 3, 2022.
43 Ibid.

160 161
 SHORT TAKE
B
y virtue of its premiering in the Philippines
more than three decades after it was made,
A Rustling of Leaves: Inside the Philippine
Revolution (1989) provides a broad vantage point of the politics
of mediation in the country. The documentary follows two
revolutions—the muted aftermath of the democratic People
Power Revolution that ended the Marcos dictatorship in 1986
and the continuing revolution waged by the Communist Party
of the Philippines (CPP). Founded by Jose Maria Sison in
1968 at the cusp of the twenty-year dictatorship of Ferdinand
Marcos Sr., CPP is a rectified Maoist reorientation of the
communist revolt in the country established in the 1930s by
urban labor unions. Over time, the CPP swelled in ranks as a
response to the Marcos excesses, with a rallying cry for national
industrialization, removal of US bases, and comprehensive land
reform. Shot only a year after the Mendiola Massacre that saw
the killing of disgruntled peasants protesting Corazon Aquino’s
non-fulfillment of her promise to redistribute land, A Rustling
of Leaves hones in on the deep-seated malady of landlessness
unresolved by revolutions.
Before making A Rustling of Leaves, director Nettie
Wild produced Right to Fight (1982), a documentary about
the housing crisis in Vancouver, Canada. She was a Bachelor of
Fine Arts graduate of the University of British Columbia with
a major in creative writing and a minor in film and theater.
In her initial forays in the Philippines, she coordinated with
the Philippine Educational Theater Association (PETA) for
research on Brechtian theater. PETA is a people-based social
advocacy theater troupe, and through its political network,
Wild was able to connect with the larger people’s movement
in the Philippines. With a theater background versed in
narrative-building and characterization, the zeal of an emergent
documentarist, and the freshness of perspective of a foreigner,
Wild followed a serendipitous series of events in post-Martial
Law Philippines. Her research on militant theater eventually
led to the production of A Rustling of Leaves, a documentary
illuminated by an activist’s piercing historical materialist insight
into the tumultuous turning points in Philippine history in the
late ‘80s.
The documentary opens with a montage of sugar
cane fields and workers or sakadas accompanied by a narration
that provides a sweeping historical overview of the conflict—
from land usurpation during the Spanish colonial era to the
neocolonial US trade relations—that left Filipinos without a
choice but to wage a revolution. Wild recalls that “in order to
illuminate this conflict, I had to find two sides, the many sides
(of the story)….And it was difficult.”1 The key players in the
chronicle represent the many sides. These include the fighters
of the CPP armed wing New People’s Army (NPA). Jorge
“Ka Oris” Madlos is an eloquent CPP-NPA leader, having
finished his college education at Central Mindanao University
in Musuan, Bukidnon, where he was a student activist before
deciding to join the CPP-NPA. “Batman” is a new member
162
A Rustling of Leaves (RoL) setting the milieu of historical injustice and
landlessness represented by the exploited sakadas or sugar workers in Negros
Island. All images are author's screenshots of the film
of the CPP-NPA condemned to death by his guerrilla unit’s
“People’s Court” tribunal for being a military informant. On
the other side of the political fence are rabid anti-communist
radio DJ Jun Pala and military personnel and vigilante group
leader Lt. Col. Bato dela Rosa. In the middle are individuals
representing the legal aboveground left comprised of newly
freed political prisoners: artist and radical priest Ed dela Torre,
and CPP-NPA founder Bernabe “Kumander Dante” Buscayno.
The story arc mainly follows Kumander Dante. In
his youth, Kumander Dante was an exploited sakada who
rose against the landowner of the lands he tilled in Angeles,
Pampanga, to demand humane wages. He was consequently
recruited by the communist guerrilla group Hukbalahap, or
the Huks, but later broke away with his unit to join the CPP
founded by Sison, whose unit likewise splintered from the
Huks. Kumander Dante’s armed group officially became the
CPP-NPA in 1969. The CPP-NPA’s initial headquarters was
based in Angeles, surrounding the Clark US Airforce base.
Established at the turn of the century under American colonial
rule, the existence of the Clark US Airforce base long after
the Americans left became a monolith that attested to the
extractive neocolonial relations that continued to burden the
Filipino peasants.
In 1976, Kumander Dante was captured by the
Marcos administration and imprisoned in solitary confinement
for a decade. Tornquist accounted in an essay on the democratic
struggles in the country after Martial Law that upon receiving
political amnesty from Aquino, Kumander Dante chose not to
return to the CPP-NPA guerrilla front and instead gambled on
Aquino’s “democratic space” offered to the revolutionary left.2
Five more ex-political detainees joined Kumander Dante. A
Rustling of Leaves documents his bid for a senatorial seat under
SHORT TAKE
Jun Pala in the DXGO (855 AM) Aksyon Radyo radio station in Agdao,
Davao City
the Partido ng Bayan (PnB) political party. It follows the PnB
campaign all over the country. Edited in a style reminiscent
of D.A. Pennebaker’s '70s rock documentaries, the cinematic
coverage of the campaign focuses on lean and collected
Kumander Dante, who exuded charisma with his masterful
rhetoric, wooing the masses in layman’s terms to the necessity
of the social democratic fight for land reform.
In her analysis of the fraught power dynamics in Post-
EDSA Revolution Philippines, Belinda A. Aquino scrutinized
the PnB as only the second legal broad alliance of leftist
groups in Philippine history, following the 1946 Democratic
Alliance (DA), likewise composed of members of militant labor
unions.3 While the DA won six seats in the 1946 congressional
elections, the PnB candidates landed at the bottom of the 1986
senatorial election results. The stark difference between the
popularity of the DA and PnB campaigns tells a tale that Wild
astutely situates within the broader framework of the Cold
War. Since 1947, a year after the DA won the congressional
elections, the world has been divided between the warring
camps of the capitalist US and the communist Soviet bloc.
The Philippines, as a US neocolony, naturally fell under the
dominion of the former and has since then actively campaigned
to quell communism. In 1953, New York Times reported that
the Philippine government sent a soldier, Benedicto Pinga,
to learn propaganda filmmaking in New York to “convince
rebellious Communist groups in the islands to surrender.”4
Nick Deocampo’s history of Philippine alternative cinema
recounted how Pinga returned with the necessary technical
know-how and his “relentless assertion of marginalized forms
helped decouple the short film and the documentary form
from the commercial feature-length films.5 In Pinga’s written
accounts, a parallel to and more pressing development than his
avant-garde alternative cinema forays were his contributions in
the co-founding and administration of state communication
Bernaby "Kumander Dante" Buscayno in the 1987 Phillippine Senate election
campaign trail under the Partido ng Bayan
institutions and some of the first film schools in the country.6
Pinga’s covert influence lies in the ideological underpinnings
contained in the technological innovations and pedagogical
reorientations he introduced in the country as a soldier
informed by a film education funded in line with the anti-
communist information campaign. This statement certainly
does not disregard the crucial contributions he pioneered in
the country but rather calls attention to an unproblematized
ontological circumstance of modern Philippine media and
cinema history.
The PnB’s defeat in 1986 foreshadowed the
dissolution of the communist Soviet Union, ending the Cold
War in 1991. In parallel to this decline was a forty-year-long
global anti-communist propaganda campaign. In A Rustling
of Leaves, we see how this ideology trickled down and became
internalized by the likes of Jun Pala, an anti-communist radio
personality and spokesperson of Alsa Masa, the largest anti-
communist group in the country based in Davao City. Despite
his disinfomation-laden account about the infamous Davao
Death Squad, Duterte mouthpiece and Davao-based columnist
Jun Ledesma provided the details on the unexpected start of
Pala’s anti-communism.7 Ledesma wrote that Juan Porras “Jun”
Pala was an outspoken anti-Marcos radio DJ known for his
radio program “Operation Tulong” at DXRH, a radio station
based in the Agdao District of Davao City that was also the
main headquarters of the urban unit of the CPP-NPA. His
anti-government stance naturally put him on the side of the
rebel fighters until the newly appointed Regional Commander
of the Integrated National Police for Region 11 Col. Dionisio
Tan-Gatue Jr., ordered the closure of his program. In exchange
for reviving his show, Pala commenced his anti-communist
campaign to declare his loyalty to the police. We see Pala’s
resolve to keep his job in the form of an unwavering allegiance
in the documentary. Never breaking intense eye contact with
163
 SHORT TAKE
Anti-communist vigilante group Alsa Masa war cry: Christ or Communism?
the camera, he lays down his self-appointed mandate of
eradicating communism to maintain so-called moral order:
“Christ or Communism?”
Religion is a potent tool for mediation in modern
Philippine society, having been deeply ingrained in the Filipino
psyche during three centuries of Spanish colonization. In
Metro Manila, the democratic People Power Revolution was
ignited by calls for moral justice made by Cardinal Jaime Sin
broadcasted through the Radyo Veritas. Elsewhere, like in Pala’s
Davao City, religion was used as a tool for subservience. Pala’s
religious vendetta against communists arguably assisted the
state in converting Agdao from the bedrock of CPP-NPA to
that of Alsa Masa. In one of his nightly broadcast tirades, Pala
named suspected communists. Some of the people he named
were later killed by the Tadtad, a religious vigilante group
led by Lt. Col. Dela Rosa, notorious for beheading alleged
communists. Colleen Woods provided a critical broader view
on how the mobilization of anti-communism in the Philippines
touted by commoners such as Pala and Dela Rosa ultimately
164
legitimized violence against all forms of social organization that
do not benefit both the US imperial interests and the economic
and political interests of the local elite.8 The documentary
illustrates this as the US-Aquino tandem that validated
vigilante groups, whatever their mission or methods, as part a
larger global imperial framework of anti-communist American
divide and conquer tactics during the Cold War.
A Rustling of Leaves has since been widely distributed
in North America, Europe, and Australia and won awards in
the 1989 Genie Awards and Berlin Film Festival. However, it
only premiered in the Philippines 32 years after its production
at the 2020 Daang Dokyu Film Festival. In the festival
discussion session with the director, Wild explained:
The film came out in 1989. Where in the Philippines
are we going to show it? Which cinema? We had a
film for commercial release.…Where could we have
shown an uncut version?... But its interesting to think
about A Rustling of Leaves going out digitally. Over
SHORT TAKE
Partido ng Bayan campaign rally
the entire country in a way that is safe….Maybe
those 32 (sic) years are enough distance to provide
protection and encourage reflection. Maybe it is the
perfect premiere.9
But Wild’s optimism for new technology is
unfounded. A Rustling of Leaves gives a glimpse into the
probable missing links in the narrative of long-time Davao
City mayor Rodrigo Duterte’s rise to the presidency in 2016
and the ensuing impunity of his “war on drugs,” both aided
by a massive online disinformation campaign in the country.
According to Yuji Vincent Gonzales’ report in 2017, retired
police officer Arturo Lascañas claimed under oath how his
group, the Davao Death Squad, was ordered by Duterte to kill
Pala in 2003.10 The connection between Duterte and Pala goes
way back. In 1988, Duterte allegedly won the mayoral election
against a more popular candidate, the anti-Marcos Zafiro
Respicio, with the help of nuisance candidate Pala.
Miguel Paolo Reyes’ research on the Duterte and Pala
connection outlined that
theirs was a divide-and-conquer tactic: Pala…would
take some of the votes that would have gone to
Respicio, who supported Alsa Masa; Duterte, who was
running with pro-Marcos people but had a “leftist”
reputation…would take both pro-Marcos and anti-
Marcos votes, as well as votes from areas under the
control of the New People’s Army.11
Likewise, Duterte shared the airwaves with Pala.
Carolyn O. Arguillas narrated how, since 1998, Duterte has
communicated to his Davao City constituents through a weekly
television show called “Gikan sa Masa” (From the Masses).12
Animated infographic explaining the multiple coup attempts that forced Pres.
Cory Aquino to "trade people power for military support," leading to failure of
peace talks with the National Democratic Front
The show, broadcasted on the ABS-CBN regional satellite,
ran for 17 years and only ended during the preparation for his
presidential campaign. Echoing Pala’s firebrand broadcasting
style, Duterte had a penchant for inserting expletives and
politically incorrect statements in his show. However, unlike
Pala’s grimness, his broadcasting was mixed with an errant
attitude that endeared him to his constituents in Davao City
and, later on, to Filipino voters in the national presidential
elections. Both employed the tactic of reading names of erring
individuals who would later be found dead. The same tactic was
used during Duterte’s “drug war” campaign when he publicly
read the names of suspected narco-politicians. This tactic was
associated with the extrajudicial killings on the ground, helmed
by his appointed Philippine National Police chief Dela Rosa,
the same person who had previously led the Tadtad vigilante
group. Strongmen Pala and Duterte eventually battled over
Davao territory in their respective bid for power. One had to be
eliminated for the other to move forward unhindered.
A continuing past is embedded in postcolonial and
neoliberal mechanisms that are strongest where the state is at
its weakest. A Rustling of Leaves investigates an important piece
in the puzzle that connects Duterte’s “drug war” impunity and
disinformation campaign to anti-communism in Davao City
as a specific geopolitical mediation engineered and calibrated
within the chaos in the margins. Here, the margins refer both
to Davao (in relation to imperial Manila) and Philippines
(in relation to Cold War global power dynamics). Within
these spaces rife with volatile politics and changeable loyalties
converged a distinct brand of disinformation, a many-headed
hydra that thrives on political gain as a moral imperative.
This aspect of local mediation and the innovation of its
technological infrastructures paralleled a sustained global and
165
 SHORT TAKE SHORT TAKE

state-financed anti-communist campaign. The same ideological
framework established a critical spectrum of communication
channels in the country—from state communication outfits
to media educational institutions. In this light, the seeming
recent phenomenon of disinformation that confounds us
in the Digital Age is but the remediation13 or persistence of
the information war model cultivated in the peripheries and
tolerated by the vested interests in the center, in another
technological form and platform.
The power of A Rustling of Leaves as a documentary
lies in its relentless seeking of authenticity amid this
information war. Collaborating with various groups and
artists in the Philippines, Wild documented a thirst for
understanding, not one truth but the constellation of situated
truths that compel each subject to fulfill his or her perceived
role. Deep knowledge of the human condition springs not
from an expert eye but from a desire to know more. In her
search for answers, Wild documented something not seen
in other audiovisual documentary works at that time or even
in recent memory—a mapping of similarities across borders.
Her stories shuttled between Imperial Manila and Mindanao,
between the local concerns and global interests, across political
colors, and through the continuum of human desires. This is no
mere technique but the ethical mandate of any storyteller—a
committed and conscientious effort toward unfolding the
narrative from all sides to surface the scourge lodged within the
core of a society.
In 34 years, the conflict outlined in A Rustling of
Leaves has only grown more menacing. The root of an ongoing
revolution, the conflicted land itself, has been eased out of
the main story. Kumander Dante acquiesced to this new
frontline, rejecting armed struggle in favor of moving into
the parliamentary battlefield of representation. Unseen in the
documentary, Törnquist wrote that Kumander Dante went
back to his home in Tarlac in 1988 to establish government-
supported land cooperatives despite knowing full well that the
initiative would fail “within the parameters of the system.”14
Aestheticized politics15 controlled by the players savvy in capital
and media remains at the center stage. The Marcoses, patron
of arts and culture and allies of empire, are all too familiar
with this arena and have taken advantage of it to engineer
their return to power in 2022 with the presidential win of
Ferdinand Marcos, Jr. Through a glass darkly, A Rustling of
Leaves makes us understand the chronicle of the necessity of a
concerted grassroots remediation of a people’s resistance and
self-determination that has been and remains the target of
disinformation ground zero.

Adjani Guerrero Arumpac is an Assistant Professor at the University of the Philippines Film Institute. She is a documentarist
working on an ongoing autoethnographical trilogy on internal diaspora in the Philippines currently comprised of Walai (2006)
and War is a Tender Thing (2013). Her other project is a series on Philippine female icons, including Nanay Mameng (2013), a
feature on the life of octogenarian Philippine urban mass leader Carmen Deunida, and Conchita (2018), a documentary about
former Supreme Court Justice and Ombudsman of the Philippines Conchita Carpio-Morales. She was awarded the British
Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s Chevening scholarship in 2018, through which she finished her MA in Digital Media and
Cultural Studies at Goldsmiths University of London.

Endnotes
1 "LIVE: Q&A with A Rustling of Leaves Director Nettie Wild."
DaangDokyu.ph, September 30, 2020, Facebook Video, 01:22:00-
01:22:31, www.facebook.com/DaangDokyu/videos/955293108316001.
2 Olle Törnquist, "Fighting for Democracy in Philippines," Economic and
Political Weekly, no. 26 (1990): 1385-1387.
3 Belinda A. Aquino, "The Philippines in 1987: Beating Back the
Challenge of August," Southeast Asian Affairs (1988): 191–215.
4 "Filipino Studying Here for Film War," The New York Times, March 29,
1953.
5 Nick Deocampo, Alternative Cinema: The Unchronicled History of
Alternative Cinema in the Philippines (University of the Philippines Press,
2022): 33.
6 Benedicto G. Pinga, Report on Screen Education, unpublished typescript,
Film Institute of the Philippines, 1956; and Benedicto G. Pinga,
"Looking at our Film Institute," Cinema Philippines, 1968.
7 Jun Ledesma, "The DDS myth (1st of 4 parts)", Philippine News Agency,
March 17, 2018.
8 Colleen Woods, Freedom Incorporated: Anticommunism and Philippine
Independence in the Age of Decolonization. Cornell University Press, 2020.
9 "LIVE: Q&A with A Rustling of Leaves Director Nettie Wild,"
01:14:32-01:16:11.
10 Yuji Vincent Gonzales, "Lascañas: Duterte Gave Me P1M for Jun Pala
Murder", Inquirer.Net, March 6, 2017, accessed on October 17, 2022,
newsinfo.inquirer.net/877797/lascanas-duterte-gave-me-p1m-for-jun-
pala-murder.
11 Miguel Paolo P. Reyes, "The Duterte-Marcos Connection", Vera Files,
September 29, 2019, accessed on October 17, 2022, verafiles.org/articles/
duterte-marcos-connection.
12 Carolyn O. Arguillas, "Once upon a Time, Duterte Was a “Kapamilya”
Star", Mindanews, March 1, 2020, accessed on October 17, 2022,
mindanews.com/top-stories/2020/03/once-upon-a-time-duterte-was-a-
kapamilya-star/.
13 Jay David Bolter and Richard Grusin, Remediation: Understanding New
Media (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1999): 236.
14 Törnquist, "Fighting for Democracy in Philippines," 1387.
15 Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction," Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn
(New York: Schocken Books, 1969).

166 167
 REACTION SHOT
T
he politics of art are the blind spot of much
contemporary political art,” says Hito Steyerl,
a moving image artist and writer who, in one
of her essays, talked about society’s transition to the so-called
post-democracy.1 At this stage, we realize how this blind
spot has become more perilous in every turn–and is almost
everywhere, considering that art here could be substituted by
more specific concepts, such as: the politics of writing are the
blind spot of any political writing, or, the politics of cinema are
the blind spot of most political cinema, and further on to other
media and industries. It seems that this proposal has presented
us with a Sisyphean crisis when works with political content
find it hard to escape the suction machine they were once up
against.
Underneath this, a parallel question looms: how then
can artists respond when one is compelled to create work
that calls for political action? With myriad strategies at one’s
disposal, it is only valid that questions for responding should be
addressed first lest one falls back to the complicity of its own
celebrated platforms. Like when revered paintings of old social
realists are auctioned off to fetch outrageous values that sustain
the inequities of private consumption; or when radically-
charged storylines of films remain dependent on the capitalist
nature of distribution, not to mention—the exploitative rank
and file approach to achieve one’s directorial vision in the
seldom challenged hierarchies within film production.
Where can one find the opportunity to respond while
carefully maneuvering the blind spot of political self-sabotage?
How can one treat responsiveness, foremost, as a quality that
engenders action that embodies its own instructions, moving
past the limitations of mere reaction and display?
In Philippine politics, it could be said that the
number of issues an individual must respond to has increased
exponentially over the past six years. What started as a self-
valorizing resolve to declare "war on drugs" (drugs—here as an
absurd and indeterminate term to seize the fancy of righteous
liberals who believe nationhood can only be restored via
momentous crackdowns against citizens–mostly the poor, who
have been deemed deplorable because of drug use or trade)
has turned into a killing spree under the pretense of more
ill-defined labels such as addicts, terrorists, communists, and
during the pandemic—pasaways or the uncooperative.2
These labels have produced deadly imaginations, have
made the country more divisive than ever, and have potentially
spawned six more years of impunity. So now, there should be
no hesitation in putting the label ‘artist’ to the test. What does
it entail? Does it add to the damaging and divisive mood of
communities? The label, cultural worker? What is its effect on
art’s entitlements? The labels: filmmaker, director, writer, or
producer? What do they stand for in today’s expanding social
stratum?
168
Looking back on how we responded as artists and
cultural workers over the past six years, there are few whose
ideas of response went beyond the sphere of mainstream
platforms. A significant few also maintain that response should
be through an assembly, an alliance—organized and cognizant
of the thing it deemed worthy of our unequivocal attention.
RESBAK, or RESpond and Break the Silence Against the
Killings, was formed in 2016 to condemn the violation of
human rights brought about by Rodrigo Duterte’s regime—
one that vowed to purge the country of illegal drugs within six
months after he assumed office.
Resbak is Filipino street slang, the flipped syllables
of the English word, backers. Resbak means support or
reinforcement, especially for the downtrodden, bullied, or
wronged. The collective RESBAK is a response that speaks
of urgency, of immediate action. Composed mainly of
artists, cultural workers, filmmakers, and media practitioners,
RESBAK, as the name suggests, is a gathering of force—to
seek leverage for the oppressed or to reclaim justice—is a
distinctive alliance because it promotes response to a specific
situation. It is a response that makes responding viable, and
seen.
On July 3, 2022, at stall no. 9 at the Cubao Expo,
a particular response took place. This day was just a few
weeks removed from the unlawful arrests in Tinang, Tarlac,
where nearly ninety civilians—farmers, activists, and cultural
workers—were rounded up by police and military men and
imprisoned without clear charges.3 Another alliance of artists,
SAKA, or Sama-samang Artista Para sa Kilusang Agraryo, was
at the forefront of the peaceful demonstrations held to support
local farmers—who were agrarian beneficiaries prevented
from cultivating their own land. RESBAK’s gallery, which just
resumed on-site operations at the beginning of the year, opened
an exhibition called Log Files, or Mga Tala: An Inventory of Acts
of Resistance by Cultural Workers.
That evening, activists and cultural workers gathered
together in the same space to report on their experiences
and the different ways they countered oppressive situations.
The show—which served as an inventory of the issues and
responses in the past six years, exhibited works in different
forms and mediums. From extrajudicial killings performed
during the drug war, to the reinstitution of a dictator’s family
in governance, to the draconic and inhumane impositions of
lockdowns during the pandemic, the works shown served as
records of these abuses and their fraudulent jurisdiction. As an
uncommon sight for art galleries, Stall No. 9 was infused with
art and discussions, where the likes of Ka Inday of Kadamay,
Patricia Non with her work Community Pantry, Angelo Suarez
of SAKA, and Max Santiago of Ugat-Lahi, spoke about
pressing issues amid artworks that have been crystallized as
supplements to these talks rather than mere ornaments, like in
Aie Balagtas See’s Project Busal, which is a flotilla of breathing
REACTION SHOT
masks with stitched messages culled from the sentiments of a
country ‘masked’ for silence instead of protection.
Among the works that contended for a much-needed
appraisal of the political image were three moving image
works by three artists that have demonstrated different ways of
responding to the call of "breaking the silence." First is Adjani
Arumpac’s Exercise (Your Human Rights) (2020), a mix of news
and street footage that probes directly into the government’s
response to the pandemic. Here, we see the blatant contrast
in ‘responses.’ As the health crisis worsened, the government
under Duterte’s administration elected to hit back with
a strategy it is most familiar with—through force. This is
evident with the mix of news footage and the administration’s
press briefings, admonishing the public to stay indoors or
face severe sanctions at the hands of the police and military.
Streets and residential areas were locked down like prison
sites, immobilizing families and individuals from their daily
regimen in exchange for vague promises of aid and sustenance.
These ultimatums in Arumpac’s video are intercut with scenes
from congested communities, whose residents clamor for
the leniency of restrictions to address their daily needs. The
sights and sounds tell everything: residents are berated, some
threatened to be dragged into prison, some hit with wooden
sticks. In this interaction between authority and citizens,
between ruler and ruled, Arumpac’s cause-and-effect montage
takes an interesting turn—one that stays true to the facetious
nature of barren governance—through which we begin to
hear the accompanying beat of lively music as its soundtrack,
and when the screen splits to show the diagram for breathing
exercises. Exercise—as the title points out, also pertains to
physical exercise. As an instructional video—and video as
parody—of the government’s public announcements on proper
exercises to stave off the virus.
If Arumpac’s work was meant to satirize workout
videos by evoking the foolish/humorous against the grimness
of the situation, Nikki Luna’s Dancing With A Dictator (2018)
demonstrates the contemplative and brooding effects of video.
Shot in a single frame and single take, we are affixed to the
sight of a woman’s high heel shoe as it slowly burns. The shoe
is a wooden replica from one of Imelda Marcos’s collections.
Here, video is used for its ability to contemplate and interpret
the past—a memory machine. However, memory here is
burdened with a concept, the same way that certain histories
cannot be stripped of their dire effects. The interpretation
of the past is one thing, Luna reminds us through her work,
but the effects of those events cannot be set aside without
judgment or sound discernment. The stillness of the scene
becomes active as if still life is recorded for its transformation.
Moving images have that power to transform stillness into
motion, to make passive memory active once again. In Luna’s
depiction of an object associated with the Marcos matriarch,
she allows an inventory to serve as a symbol laden with
meanings. In this work, we are reminded how inventories
remain vital forces in assessing our histories. It has become
more powerful than collections and archives because judgment,
classifications, tallies, and values are inherent within the act.4
There is no reason social inventories cannot act as a moral
inventory.
A prime example of how video can utilize its own
idiosyncratic manifestations to raise awareness is RESBAK’s
collective project called Christmas In Our Hearts (2016).
Latching on to an iconic and staple Filipino holiday tune,
combined with one of the people’s favorite pastimes–the
videoke, this video draws from the clout of popular culture
in portraying the grave effects of the drug war. The video
replaces the song’s original lyrics with words condemning the
killings. The new lyrics are written on cardboards, mimicking
extrajudicial crime scenes where cardboards are placed on
dead bodies, like “I am a drug addict.” This particular work
can be considered a unique case study in treating inventory
as appropriation.5 In repurposing music that has become a
cultural artifact, the age-old quandaries in privatization and
property rights take full effect as Facebook took down the
RESBAK page without prior notice after the video reached
more than 100,000 views and 1,400 shares.6 While no
tampering was involved in the actual music, we can see the
power juxtaposition wields. In running the song with images
that decry the administration’s policies, the work proved that
transferences, mash-ups, and remix strategies in today’s video
culture effectively convey meaning in the social media sphere.
Whether it was outright censorship or an exaggeration of
issues in artistic rights, the video Christmas in Our Hearts by
RESBAK is another example that bares who controls culture.
That whenever benign, its popularity is openly celebrated.
In RESBAK’s own statement, the exhibition Log Files
(Mga Tala) sternly reminds us of the dangers when we forget
that data is essentially information that requires inquiry and
interpretation. It is not too far from the dangers of thinking
that art—whenever it is political—is enough. The exhibition
in Cubao Expo’s stall no. 9 understood this notion: that art,
like data, should be interpreted and deserve our inquiry in
many ways. Whether through form, manner, timeliness, or
function—art, even in its politicalness, can never be an end in
itself.
The three works in video shown here provide yet
another understanding of how moving images can transcend
the usual manifestations of spectacle or entertainment. While
incorporated in video, the principles of art do not necessarily
mean the esoteric or concealed. And in their manifestations
that can occupy either galleries, cinemas, and social media, we
can understand how the shift in platforms is crucial if we want
to direct our inquiries on how art, images, or other popular
media like films and paintings are made. And their content,
while overtly political, navigate the blind spot of art’s politics by
firmly anchoring themselves in the suppositions of ‘response,’ of
169
 REACTION SHOT
an alliance, of a force—a necessary reinforcement—and beyond
that, an inventory that supplements the gaps and blind spots
within the incessant distortion of our histories.
Cocoy Lumbao Jr. is a visual artist, writer, and curator. His
works have been exhibited in MCAD, The Metropolitan
Museum, Mo_Space in the Philippines, Mindset Art Center
in Taiwan, Osage Gallery in Hong Kong, Loop Gallery in
South Korea, and the 2016 Art Stage in Singapore. In 2017,
he was the recipient of the Gasworks artist residency program
in London. He is a founding member of Lost Frames, an
initiative that supports up-and-coming artists by organizing
screening programs. He teaches art history under the
Department of Theory at the UP College of Fine Arts.
170
Endnotes
1 Hito Steyerl, “Politics of Art: Contemporary Art and the Transition to
Post-Democracy,” in The Wretched of the Screen (Berlin: Sternberg Press,
2012), 96.
2 An interesting essay on how Filipino society has made these acceptable,
from the point of view of Japanese scholar, see Wataru Kusaka, “Duterte’s
Disciplinary Quarantine: How a Moral Dichotomy was Constructed and
Undermined,” Philippine Studies: Historical and Ethnographic Viewpoints
68 no. 3-4 (2020): 423–42.
3 For online reports and archives of developments on the unlawful arrests
in Tinang, Tarlac, see “Tags: Tinang 83,” in Bulatlat, bulatlat.com/tag/
tinang-83/.
4 For more discussion on how archival practices have expanded and
evolved in film, the internet, new media, etc., and how its concepts have
become more unstable, see Eivind Røssaak, ed., The Archive in Motion:
New Conceptions of the Archive in Contemporary Thought and New Media
Practices (Oslo: Novus Press, 2010).
5 Appropriation used here in the context of art—but also appropriation
as viewed through the more nuanced concept of the object’s material
condition—when it is offered to the public for its gains but ceases to
become public for its usage.
6 Eya Beldia, trans. Debs Bartolog, Log Files Exhibition Notes (Manila:
RESBAK, 2022).
171
 //logfiles
Photos by Jemima Chan
Venue: Stall 09, Cubao X, Quezon City
July 3-18

When we think of data we often think about abstract systems, incoherent datum, and transactional
exchange housed in highly engineered technology. A man-made resource aimed to connect amidst distance
and capture interaction. For decades now, machines store and secure information, or controversially, survey
human behavior data points on the premise of documentation. Full histories of activity have been recorded
in sequences represented through the binary system of ones and zeroes. They record our appearance,
our interactions, and our conversations. Yet the data created, constructed, and consumed amidst tense
worldviews remains far from capturing whole realities. Relying on the idea of data, we also often forget that
for it to become information, data requires inquiry and interpretation.

The works of Dash Araya, Jaja Arumpac, Dee Ayroso, Aie Balagtas See, Nikki Luna & Patreng
Non activate notions of data. Mediated through videos, fabric, stone and steel, zines, comics, and a food
cart, the exhibition takes stock of pieces that document and discuss oppressive conditions to call for state
accountability. Log Files / Mga Tala is an inventory of works that question and creatively respond to a
range of human rights violations in the Philippines committed between 2016 and 2022. Including, among
countless others, impunity in the War on Drugs; the repression of dissent and freedom of expression
through the Anti-Terrorism Act; and neglecting people’s rights to health, food security, and life. As we
navigate these precarious times between regimes, these initiatives serve as reminders of necessary contexts,
the very human ability to inquire and investigate, and to resist continuously amidst disinformation and
injustice. It is this space where Resbak keeps log.

—Eya Beldia

172 173
174 175
 ARCHIVE

Eya Beldia’s background in creative communication informs her research which entwines art histories, contemporary art, and care
practices. She teaches Critical Perspectives in the Arts at the University of the Philippines.

RESBAK (RESpond and Break the Silence Against the Killings) is an interdisciplinary alliance of artists, media practitioners,
and cultural workers. The primary goal of RESBAK is to advance social awareness about the killings brought forth by the Duterte
administration’s ‘war on drugs’. Through various art forms and platforms, we seek to empower the most vulnerable sectors targeted
by impunity.

176 177
 SHORT TAKE SHORT TAKE

I
n the early days of documenting Rodrigo turned out to be an overwhelming night, as many killings were
Duterte’s drug killings for the documentary happening everywhere, seemingly endlessly.
Aswang (2019), I kept a private blog to write
Around 5am, on my way home, we learned that
down facts, thoughts, and observations of each filming day.
there was another operation that killed 7 people in
For several months, the day would start after dinner and end
Old Balara. They only had one target, but there were
sometime before sunrise. Back home, I tried to write the day’s
several other ‘drug personalities’ in the same place.
observations during the tedious ritual of transferring the
They were doing a pot session, they said. They were
footage from the cards and preparing three separate copies. It
taken to the hospital (“you know, for human rights,”
was a form of pagpag (in Filipino, it refers to the act of using a
an officer told a reporter) but they were all declared
piece of cloth to shake off dust or dirt; it also refers to the ritual
dead upon arrival. A total of 29 people were killed in
cleansing of going elsewhere, out of the way, after attending
the metro by the time the sun rose.
a funeral or wake, instead of going straight home, so the evil
spirits do not follow you), committing the night’s deathly
energy into data and paper, so I did not bring them with me to
sleep.

Arriving at a scene of a killing, we were often greeted

with a hushed silence, sometimes a low sobbing, a guttural
howling. There would be whispers and the photographers’
camera shutters. Always, the pinks and blues of the police
lights bounced off the walls. I started equating police lights
with killings so much that my heart would start pounding
whenever I saw them randomly on the streets. The unknown
killers would leave cardboard notes with their ‘signatures’ or
draw smiley faces on the heads of the slain wrapped with
tape. It was unsettling that many killings seemed to have been
designed as a spectacle for the media.
A flagellant lies down on the ground during a penitensya in Navotas
The violence and cruelty a human being can inflict on
another remain incomprehensible to me.

One night we went to Navotas Fishport after news of

an incident. Coming in, we saw a group of men on motorcycles
with masks on. They were the executioners in plain clothes—
in basketball shorts and bulletproof vests—leaving. A man
sprawled facedown on the ground looked like he had tried to
escape into an alley. I met the dead man’s sister, who declared,
“He deserved it; he was a police asset.” He was supposedly a
known pusher and was being hunted down. “This is the last
one. It will be quiet now,” the police chief told us.

Minutes later, an older woman arrived, frantically

During the first months of covering Duterte’s war on drugs. A policeman
shows the filmmaker the drugs they claim to be hidden in a victim’s person.
All images are used with permission
On my second day on the night shift, the police
conducted a galugad (the act of scouring or exploring intently;
Oplan Galugad was also the Philippine National Police’s term
for their operations to search for suspects or drugs) somewhere
in Payatas. I had written down that it felt like a show for the
international media who wanted to see them in action. It
178
trying to get a look at the body. Her pregnant daughter had not
been home in days, and she rushed over when she heard the
news of another killing. I overheard her prayers because I was
monitoring the audio. “Susmarya,‘wag po, ‘wag po” (God, please
no, please no), she muttered to herself softly. She had already
lost a son to the drug war a few months back. The TV lights
turned to her, and the microphones shoved onto her face. Is this
your son? What’s your son’s name? The media quickly lost interest
when they realized it was not her child and pointed the lights
back to the corpse. “The prisons are big enough,” she yelled in
Filipino as she walked away. “Just lock them up. You don’t have
to kill them. The prisons are big enough.”
179
 SHORT TAKE
Detainees take turns sleeping inside the crowded city jail
Whenever a man is killed and his body taken away,
someone places a candle in the pool of his blood. When the
hubbub dies down, the blood is washed away with a pail of
soapy water. Once, a man was gunned down while he was
having dinner. They put the candle on his unfinished tapsilog (a
Filipino breakfast meal of fried meat, eggs, and rice).
On my sixth day, a man was shot dead in a place
ironically called Katarungan ( Justice) Street. The narrow alley
where the slain lived and died was packed with journalists and
bystanders, a circus of TV lights and cameras. When they took
his body away, the media hounded the crying family to speak
on camera. Then, when things calmed down a little, one crying
woman started to sweep away the massive pool of blood with a
walis-tingting (reed broom).
Like clockwork, and ever so calmly despite sniffles,
one woman started scrubbing and washing the blood
away. So quietly hysterical.
Amid that chaos, I could not help but think about
the blood on the ground. It belonged to a person. Blood is so
intimate and precious, even if it has been spilled on the ground
and swept down the gutter. A dead man on the street, however
he lived his life, or however violently it ended, deserves dignity
at the moment of his departure. Yet, here we are, shining
spotlights on his body and forcing his loved ones to talk on
camera.
180
Understandably, the families feared for their lives and
decided not to follow through with the investigation. Their fear
and grief were displayed on TV and in newspapers, and many
sympathized. But, ultimately, they carry their fear and grief
alone.
Documentary filmmakers like myself often (ideally)
operate on a ‘do no (further) harm’ premise. We do not put
the subjects in danger. We try not to traumatize them further
by repeating interviews, asking difficult or leading questions,
and initiating reenactments. We tend to immerse more and
develop relationships with subjects, often blurring lines that
can be advantageous to the film but otherwise problematic.
Though many of us follow guidelines adapted from printed
and broadcast media, there are no defined codes on the ground,
and the decision-making is mainly personal. These decisions
are the filmmaker’s burden and remain so long after the film
is released. We try to exercise much restraint, involve many
critical eyes in the process, and dialogue with the editors in
the cutting room. What you choose to leave out can carry as
much meaning as what makes the final cut. The entire process,
or journey, is a constant and rigorous contemplation of one’s
practice and values, for they are inextricably linked.
This burden, I feel, is something shared particularly
by nonfiction filmmakers. The film is over, but stories keep
unfolding, people go on with their lives, and you will never stop
worrying about them because life in the Philippines is simply
SHORT TAKE
violent. In real life, there is no justice for the thousands of
victims. The architects of this bloodshed still roam free.
Aside from the killers of Kian delos Santos, whose murder
was caught on camera, no one has been held accountable
for drug-related killings.
What, then, is the purpose of our work?
At the height of the drug war, my colleagues
and I always spoke of the future, the day Duterte leaves
office, and the killings finally end. We were convinced or
convinced ourselves that accountability and justice must be
imminent. We never stopped hoping that with each photo,
story, or film, the Filipinos who supported this carnage
would have a change of heart. I now understand that
undoing lies and disinformation is a much more arduous
Blood on Katarungan Street
process, and more than ever, storytellers play an essential
role. Truthtellers—filmmakers, writers, photographers,
journalists, artists—must ensure that we leave indelible
memories.
In 2020, the film festival Daang Dokyu made
documentaries about Martial Law available to the public,
including A Rustling of Leaves (1988), Marcos: A Malignant
Spirit (1986), and others, and it is both fascinating and
heartbreaking to see that nothing has truly changed. Our
nation refuses to learn from its past. However, this is
not to despair; rather, it simply reaffirms the value of the
documentary form’s intrinsic function as evidence and
memory. That cinema endures. And I look forward to
being part of a movement that reimagines and transforms
our discontent into a cinema of resistance and truth. This is
the task at hand.
Journalists Vincent and Rica light up a lantern during a Christmas gathering
in 2017
Alyx Ayn Arumpac is a Filipino filmmaker. She received her
Master’s in documentary film directing from Docnomads in
Portugal, Hungary, and Belgium and studied at the University
of the Philippines Film Institute and the Philippine High
School for the Arts. She is also an alum of Berlinale Talents
Docstation, IDFAcademy, Talents Tokyo, and Docs by the Sea.
Her debut feature Aswang (2019) won 25 awards, including
the grand prizes at Gawad Urian, FAMAS, and Pinoy
Rebyu in the Philippines and at the Montreal International
Documentary Festival, DMZ Festival in South Korea, Film
Festival Dokumenter Yogyakarta, and the critics’ prize at the
International Documentary Filmfestival Amsterdam.
181
 SHORT TAKE REACTION SHOT
L
ike corruption or political violence,
environmental terrorism occupies a sweet spot
in the minds of certain corners of the middle
class, enough to cause the clucking of tongues and the shaking
of heads, and the relegation of such concerns to the category of
“bad news.”
It takes a particular trigger to elevate one concern
over another in one’s personal circle of collective consciousness:
for example, increased proximity to the issue brought about
by fewer degrees of separation from it, or a sudden personal
involvement in the situation.
Sometimes, it takes a particular voice. In Karl
Malakunas’s documentary Delikado (2022), produced by Marty
Syjuco, Michael Collins, and Kara Magsanoc-Alikpala, that
voice is Bobby Chan’s, a well-spoken lawyer educated in one
of Manila’s most prestigious private schools who has taken
up the cause to defend Palawan’s rainforests from concerted
destruction by illegal loggers who operate with impunity,
implicitly under the protection of a corrupt government.
Chan’s ragtag team of longtime volunteers are natives
of the municipality of El Nido, which lies on the northern
part of Palawan Island. The members of the Palawan NGO
Network, Inc. (PNNI), headed by Chan since 2009, count
among them Ruben “Kap” Arzaga, a husband and a father
of five, and Efren “Tata” Balladeres, a former member of
the government’s paramilitary force. As barangay captain of
his village (Kap is presumably short for “Kapitan”), Kap is
respected among his small community and thus also plays
the part of their protector; Tata’s previous occupation has
opened his eyes to the government’s duplicity and sees his
environmental work as a personal mission of redemption.
Tata Balladares and other PNNI para-enforcers walk through a patch of destroyed mangrove
forest. All images are used with permission
Opposite page: Bobby Chan stands in front of chainsaws at PNNI HQ
182
Delikado also follows the stories of Nieves Rosento,
elected mayor of the town of El Nido in 2016, the same
year Rodrigo Duterte was elected president. Rosento leads
a startlingly and disarmingly simple lifestyle—she dresses in
t-shirts and slippers like everyone else, takes a tricycle to work,
and operates a sari-sari store to augment her family income.
The modest lives of the El Nido natives are in stark
contrast to the landscape and the reputation of El Nido itself.
To outsiders and the world at large, El Nido is a postcard-
perfect idea of the last undiscovered paradise on earth: bright
green tropical islands, vast powdery beaches, shimmeringly
clear marine waters alive with flora and fauna.
But the ecosystem is hardly undiscovered, or
untouched. Tourism has encouraged the establishment of roads
and large-scale resorts across Palawan’s delicate archipelago,
and the accompanying surge in investments and income has
brought the expected environmental strain. Mayor Rosento
knows how much her town may stand to gain—but is also
acutely aware of the heavy price progress will inflict on their
life and their future.
Bearing bolos, GoPros, and a mandate upheld by the
principles of citizen’s arrest, Chan’s NGO is clearly not armed
enough or strong enough to be considered a credible force
against the constant buzzing of the chainsaws in the forests.
Between footage of Kap, Tata, and their small team trudging
barefoot on paths that snake into seemingly unending green are
shots of hectares of denuded land, stripped of color and of life.
If the contrast is stark, so, it seems, is the futility of their cause.
At the center of the struggle, Chan cuts an
appropriately futile figure. He speaks eloquently of fighting
Limestone cliffs and lagoons near El Nido, Palawan
183
 REACTION SHOT

back amid the Filipino culture of violence but is also quite aware
that he is an outlier and an outsider to the system. Outside his
office, he has erected a tree made up of dozens of chainsaws seized
from illegal loggers, but he knows the chainsaws will keep coming
anyway. He devotes time to reading the Bible and writing letters
of complaint to the authorities, but by this time, even the viewer
knows that prayer and formal procedure will not stand a chance
against state-backed “progress.”

When Mayor Rosento begins her reelection campaign,

she becomes another all-too-easy symbol of futility. President
Duterte, it is revealed, has close ties with the higher government
officials who seem to have abetted illegal logging activities. Later
in her campaign, Rosento finds herself named as a drug trafficker
by Duterte himself on television, further reducing her chances of
reelection. She faces a powerful opponent who touts tourism as a
boon for the local economy, and her campaign takes dismal and
dark turns as she attempts to drum up support amid resistance
from the local police—and a defeat that is almost assured.

What is also almost assured is the tragedy that happens

while the documentary is being shot, further earning the
film its title and giving it the urgency and currency that few
documentaries can achieve. With a strong story arc that lays a
struggle at the viewer’s feet, Delikado makes a compelling case not
just for inspiration, but for attention, and action. Movie poster of Delikado

I saw Delikado at a screening that marked the end of the

Cinemalaya Philippine Independent Film Festival at the Cultural
Center of the Philippines, an ambivalent symbol of a violent
regime that recognized the powerful role of culture in shaping
thought and sentiment. In the audience were the usual suspects:
the cinema community composed of practitioners, academics, and
students, as well as the cultural and social elite. Also present in
the audience were the lawyer Bobby Chan, former mayor Nieves
Rosento, and the surviving members of the PNNI. In this manner,
Delikado went beyond its frame and attained a vital presence.

In this way, too, the filmmakers recognized how this

particular form of film is its own struggle. It is a kind of news—
very often, bad news—that relies on the dramatic exposition of
facts to make a case. In the case of Delikado, the nature of its
subjects’ ongoing fight is amplified in the larger, darker dimensions
Adelita Arzaga comforts her youngest daughter while surrounded
by other family and friends at the funeral for her husband,
murdered para-enforcer "Kap" Ruben Arzaga, El Nido, Palawan,
September 2017

of our continuing landscape of terror, uncertainty, and violence

brought closer and closer to an audience that must be moved to
act.

Angelo R. Lacuesta has won many awards for his writing, among them three National Book Awards, the NVM Gonzalez Award,
numerous Palanca Memorial Awards and Philippines Graphic Awards, and the inaugural Madrigal Gonzalez Best First Book
Award. His most recent book is the novel JOY, published by Penguin Random House SEA in 2022.

184 185
 REACTION SHOT
I
n the context of the failures of democratization
following authoritarian rule, the legacies of
politically dissident artists during the Marcos
dictatorship continue to haunt current cultural practices of
political resistance. Scholars have revisited the legacies of New
Cinema filmmakers during the so-called Second Golden Age
of Philippine cinema to highlight their essential role in the
struggle against the dictatorship. In Contestable Nation-space:
Cinema, Cultural Politics, and Transnationalism in the Marcos-
Brocka Philippines (2014), Rolando Tolentino highlighted the
dissident role of filmmaking, as practiced in particular by New
Cinema filmmaker Lino Brocka, revealing how cinema serves
as an important vehicle to advance a counterhegemonic, if
not revolutionary, nationalist agenda. More recently, Talitha
Espiritu’s Passionate Revolutions: The Media and the Rise and
Fall of the Marcos Regime (2017) examined cinema’s crucial role,
along with photography and journalism, in the construction of
affective publics that engaged (with) the melodramatic politics
of the Marcos dictatorship.
Jose Capino’s Martial Law Melodrama (2020) is a
compelling addition to these scholarly projects. In this book,
the author revisits the cinema of Lino Brocka, tracing in both
his “prestige” and mainstream works the figuration of anti-
authoritarian politics. This critical endeavor takes melodrama
as the politico-aesthetic framework in Brocka’s political
cinema that touches upon the relational dynamics of fictional
characters inhabiting the complex terrain of Philippine
society. Capino adopts the notion of melodrama as an elastic
narrative mode that traverses genres and themes, refusing
to cast it against social realism. With this expansive view of
melodrama as a vehicle for socio-political representation and
critique, Capino also adopts a broader view in his inquiry
into Brocka’s politics by looking at not just the filmmaker’s
more frequently studied arthouse/canonical films but also
his mainstream projects, which, as Capino rightfully claims,
are a provocative purveyor of politics. Cinema politics, in this
book’s conceptualization, thereby emerges in correspondence
with the cinematic figuring of politics through not just explicit
but also subtextual/symbolic registers that include visceral,
often volcanic, flashes of violence which Capino refers to
as Marcosian moments. This moment functions to inscribe
Marcosian trauma and, as Capino demonstrates, persists across
Brocka’s oeuvre and in post-EDSA filmic and television works.
Capino’s close readings of fifteen films by Lino
Brocka take up the book’s six chapters. These readings are
organized along thematic lines and offer a comprehensive view
of Brocka’s career. Each chapter pursues a specific theme—
from the social melodrama of the city and the countryside, the
authoritarian mothers in maternal melodramas, the portrayal
of crime in local film noir, family melodrama on the brink of
economic crisis, the figuring of subversion in political cinema,
to queer melodrama. Capino’s close readings mine Brocka’s
works for indexical and allegorical traces and symptoms of
186
REACTION SHOT
authoritarian politics, enriched through convincing invocations That the book was released during the presidency of
of historical and cultural references to which certain filmic Rodrigo Duterte renders it even more provocative. Capino
elements gesture. mentions how Brocka-influenced filmmaker Brillante
Mendoza has perverted the aesthetic resources of Brocka’s
Crucial to this analytic task is Capino’s lucid
dissident cinema toward fascist ends, an argument forwarded
recounting of the filmic narratives in a way that makes them
by Patrick F. Campos in The End of National Cinema: Filipino
easy to follow even for those unacquainted with these works.
Film at the Turn of the Century (2016), written before Duterte.
While, for the most part, generally anchored on carefully-
But ultimately—and this is what Capino’s study of Brocka’s
researched historical details and astute observations about
cinema politics surfaces—the example of Brocka, and more
melodramatic conventions in both local and world cinemas,
broadly, his New Cinema contemporaries, attests to the
the book occasionally and riskily borders on the speculative,
potency of political cinema in creating a dissident public sphere
thereby provoking interpretive contentions. For instance, the
even, and especially, amid an atmosphere of political terror.
author argued that maternal melodramas like Insiang (1976),
Whore of a Mother (Ina ka ng Anak Mo, 1979), and Cain
and Abel (Cain at Abel, 1982) constructed the image of the
dictatorship through villainous mothers, a tendency which he
links to Franco-era film history in Spain. While Capino clearly
anticipates potential disagreements to this bold premise, I
find that it could have been more provocatively elaborated in Laurence Marvin S. Castillo is an Assistant Professor at the
dialogue with other cinematic figurations like the Imelda-like Department of Humanities, University of the Philippines Los
character unforgettably incarnated by Charo Santos in A Dirty Baños. He recently finished his Ph.D. at the Asia Institute,
Affair (Gumapang Ka sa Lusak, 1990). University of Melbourne, writing a thesis on contemporary
Philippine political cinema and literature. He is the author
The book traces Brocka’s growth as an artist who of Digmaan ng mga Alaala: Rebolusyon at Pagkakamali sa mga
articulated his political activism in explicit and covert ways Talang-Gunita (UP Press, 2021), a study of political memoirs,
through his films while at times undertaking pragmatic and co-editor (with Rolando Tolentino and Vladimeir
compromises. Productive in this regard is the archival labor Gonzales) of Hindi Nangyari Dahil Wala sa Social Media
undertaken by Capino, which enhances these close readings (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2021), a collection of
and yields a full-bodied and dynamic view of the cultural essays about Philippine new media.
politics of the 1970s-1990s, an era marked by various modes
of cultural regulation by the dictatorial and post-dictatorial
regimes, as well as counterhegemonic maneuvers that found
their way in the interstices of cultural work. Through creative
traces such as screenplay drafts, production notes, and other
anecdotal accounts, Capino painstakingly reconstructs
the complex ways creative workers like Brocka and his
collaborators—including militant creatives like Pete Lacaba
and Ricky Lee—tactically embarked on subversions of and
negotiations with politico-cultural regulatory structures.
Equally compelling is the surfacing of the films’ critical and
popular reception, allowing a glimpse into the kind of public
engagement and discourses provoked by Brocka, not just within
the domestic public sphere but in international festival circuits,
where they were generally viewed in light of the political
turmoil in the Philippines.
Capino extends his inquiry into Brocka’s oeuvre
beyond the formal end of the dictatorship, emphasizing the
filmmaker’s growth as a militant artist, commenting on the
continuing political violence plaguing the country’s democratic
transition. While the filmmaker’s death cut short a career
veering toward a more Left-wing sensibility, Brocka’s signature
has since made its presence visible in the filmic productions
that carry commentaries on and critiques of the social injustices
under the nominally democratic regimes.
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W
orks by student filmmakers constitute a continuous line in Filipino film history while
they also catalog the ruptures and forking trajectories of this history. They are copious
and everywhere in daring forms in the archipelago and yet exist at the margins of mass
imagination. Recognizing this paradox, one can appreciate how such films are seeds that bloom and transform
cinema over a stretch of time.

Despite the pandemic, the past two years have been no different, no less prolific, and certainly no less
audacious for student filmmaking. However, as this filmography of eighteen works from 2021 and 2022 (eight
of which were initially presented at Jakarta’s Semester Pendek Film Festival) testifies, the stubbornly faithful act
of calling into being a new cinema has also been a defiantly hopeful challenge to transform society itself.

From a very particular situation of untetheredness and commitment, these student films experiment
with varied techniques of documentation, animation, and narration and turn to allegory, mythology, folklore,
and ritual to find a line that cuts through the noise of disinformation and polarization, and reveal what matters
most urgently.

Their films hold up a mirror to the contemporary Filipino youth’s distress, yes. But they are no mere
reflections; with the compassionate lucidity and vulnerable courage of the young, they propose to reconstitute
the real of history. By unveiling and then reshaping images received from their elders, opaque but purporting
to be transparent, they recast their immediate world into a picture one could characterize, in the way Walter
Benjamin describes “genuinely historical” images, as dialectical.1 It is not only that the past illuminates the
present in a purely temporal sense, Benjamin asserts, but that, “in a flash,” a dialectical image can transmogrify
into a web of figures, transforming the connection between what-has-been and now and reorienting the
possible unfolding of tomorrow.2

These student films, although but a sampling of many more produced in the last six years, varied and
uneven in their formal achievement, political motivation, and personal sentiment, nevertheless collectively
picture this flash, foreshadowing a Benjaminian explosion, a locking of horns between present and past, with an
eye clearly into birthing a different future.

Though anguished and mournful, these student filmmakers, one quickly realizes, are not weary. While
history is brazenly distorted by the power structure exploiting mainstream cinema and social media, these
young artists utilize the moving image outside the trite and tired as an artistic and political engine for change,
recovering lost time, marking the passing of time, and biding time for tomorrow.

—Patrick F. Campos

Patrick F. Campos is a film scholar, programmer, and Associate Professor at the University of the Philippines Film
Institute and a member of NETPAC. He has programmed, juried, or served as a selection committee member for
Guanajuato International Film Festival, Singapore International Film Festival, QCinema International Film Festival, Jogja-
NETPAC Asian Film Festival, Cinema One Originals, Image Forum, Cinemalaya Independent Film Festival, Asian Film
Archive, Minikino, SeaShorts, Cinema Rehiyon, and Gawad Urian.

Endnotes
1 The Arcades Project, trans. Howard Eiland & Kevin McLaughlin (Belknap Press, 1999), 463.
2 Ibid.

188 189
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RAMBUTAN
Shayla Perales & Mae Tanagon / 2021 / Experimental
Animation / RT: 5:17
Mapúa University

Bright tropical fruits offer a vivid picture of how a virus

spreads, symptoms of internal rotting spiral into disease when
left unattended, inoculation works, and cures that may appear
threatening heal. A stop-motion animation of when the
rambutan realizes its power, the dance of nature, an allegory for
our times.

LUMALABAS (Going Out Inside)

Mico Tagulalac / 2022 / Experimental / RT: 6:44
Mapúa University

Capturing the anxiety of cabin fever during the pandemic
lockdown and expressing our innate desire for freedom, the
film projects a shadow exploring the outdoors via photographs
while remaining indoors. It experiments with and documents
two spaces, one’s psychological interior and sociopolitical
exteriors, to present a journey of recollection and reconnection
amid difficult times.
PANHUWAS (Healing)
Isabelle Santiago, Michael Cheung, & Rac Santiago / 2022 / Fiction / RT: 17:59
De La Salle University Manila
What if the savior is a manipulator, and the victim embraces one’s victimhood as salvation? In this allegorical horror film, thirteen-
year-old Pio, the son of a faith healer who possesses unquestioned religious authority in a small town, discovers the monstrosity of
his father and comes of age in untempered rage.

SI BIBOY KAG ANG SIGBIN SA SIUDAD

(Biboy and the Sigbin in the City)
Hannah Britanico / 2022 / Animated Fiction / RT:
TANAWING PINTA (Scenic Delusion)
9:14
Edel Torres Hembrador & Samantha Grace Maceda / 2022 /
University of the Philippines Visayas
Fiction / RT: 9:50
Far Eastern University
Biboy’s innocent world turns upside down when his
father disappears. According to his mother, a sigbin,
A bejeweled woman in a Filipiniana dress—an Imeldific
a blood-sucking goat-like mythological creature,
figure—is unperturbed as she paints the reality she wants to
abducted his father, compelling his young son to
see on three white cloths while mayhem erupts around her and
search for him. In the boy’s rescue mission, he meets
blood flows to her feet from beyond her curtain of art.
other kids whose family members were also taken by
the sigbin. Despite the dangers, the boy perseveres
until he uncovers the sinister identity of the creature
and the horrors during Duterte’s presidency that
engulf the city at night.

190 191
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MULAT (Awakened)
Gayle Duka, Brian Anupol, & Frances Umali / 2022 /
Hybrid Documentary / RT: 21:08
De La Salle University Manila

The hybrid documentary, told in three episodes, presents

flesh-and-blood stories behind the incredible statistics of
human rights violations committed under Duterte. The
work is centered on the harrowing experiences of three
men, Bron and Raphael, who were unlawfully arrested,
and the disappeared Nognog, feared to have been
extrajudicially executed, and their families, all victims of
violence and injustice in a purported “war on drugs” that
is, in fact, a war on the poor.

HINDI KA MALAYA, MAHABA LANG ANG

PAGBILANG KONG TATLO (That Night the Moon Shined) TANIKALA (You’re Not Free, The Chains Are Just Long)
Xzy Dumabok / 2022 / Fiction / RT: 18:52 Nic Garon & Lica Oreiro / 2021 / Experimental Documentary
University of the Philippines Diliman / RT: 3:06
Mapúa University

To relive their childhood innocence, a group of teenagers plays a Filipino version of hide-and-seek called bang-sak (an
onomatopoeia for the sounds the gun and knife make, bang-bang and saksak) in an abandoned building. However, by nightfall, Assembling archival travelogue and found news footage, this
their revelry turns dark when a police officer they slighted earlier hunts them down one by one. In the mold of a thriller, the film documentary juxtaposes how the privileged and the outsiders
paints a picture of police brutality and impunity that had defined the macho culture extolled under Duterte and been brought looking in peddle a postcard-perfect Philippines while the
to greater public attention with the “drug war” killings of teenagers and the exposure of young people to police abuse caught on underclass and people from the grassroots experience the
camera. grim reality of everyday violence. The montage of images
from different periods evokes the feeling of being trapped in
a vicious cycle, the country itself a victim of endless historical
repetition, and the desire to break free of one’s chains.

SI MARIANG MATAPANG (Maria, Courageous)

Trisha Mae Llaguno / 2022 / Fiction / RT: 4:11
Miriam College

A university student convinces her father that resisting a

corrupt and murderous government is just. In a dramatic
RIVER OF TEARS AND RAGE dialogue, they work out their generational differences and
Maricon Montajes / 2021 / Documentary / RT: 26:12 convictions and decide that the present generation owes
University of the Philippines Diliman it to their forebears, including the titular Maria’s mother,
who had been killed resisting Martial Law, and their
children to keep the sacrifices of the past sacred and the
Activist Reina Mae Nasino was a month pregnant when Manila’s police arrested her on bogus charges. She endured in one of future free.
the world’s most crowded prisons and gave birth to Baby River Emmanuel while in detention. With the government denying the
infant care from her mother, Baby River died at three months old. The film reactivates social media as a repository and expression
of outrage and resistance and culls from the film collective Kodao’s Facebook Live coverage of Baby River’s wake and burial. Amid
the pandemic, a dead infant becomes a symbol of political oppression by the Duterte regime, denounced worldwide for its human
rights crimes.

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ANG AMOMONGGO SA ATON (The Monsters Among

Us)
VinJo Entuna / 2021 / Animated Fiction / RT: 16:31
University of the Philippines Diliman

The film is set in the aftermath of the Escalante Massacre

in Negros Occidental, when, on September 20, 1985, during
a protest rally to commemorate the 13th anniversary of the
declaration of Martial Law, military forces killed over 20
civilians. The Magbuelas family lives in fear because of the
rampant killings in their peasant community following the
demonstrations. The government blames the apelike creature
Amomonggo for the deaths, while the Magbuelases turn to
the same folklore to quell their anxiety. However, when the
brutality comes knocking at their door, and the monstrosity is
revealed for what it is, the family’s matriarch decides to fight
back.

ANG MGA SISIW SA KAGUBATAN (The Chicks in the

Forest)
Vahn Pascual / 2021 / Animated Fiction / RT: 4:06
De La Salle – College of St. Benilde HAL-AL
Nadine Dumasig and Hillarie Ualat / 2022 / Fiction / RT: 5:21
Far Eastern University
A children’s tale of a town under siege by a hungry monster
who is never satisfied and a little chick who will no longer be
cowed. This animated short is a reminder that when we forget A young woman in a rural town is the only one who sees a beloved candidate, celebrated as a hero, in the upcoming election as the
as children, we fail to remember as adults. But when the young monster they had once upon a time driven away. Though not knowing how, she vows to reveal the truth, whatever the cost.
sow seeds of memory, they reap remembrance and transform
their community.

PANUBADTUBAD (The Sunrise Ritual) TANDA NG PAGTANAW (Mark of our Reckoning)

Alexis Noelle Obedencio / 2022 / Animated Documentary / Aireen Remoto / 2021 / Music Video / RT: 6:00
RT: 8:11 Meridian International College
University of the Philippines Diliman

Presented in the form of dance performed in the

The Lumad, or Indigenous Peoples, have long faced oppression
by state forces in collusion with predatory capitalists, who
displace the natives by militarizing their ancestral domains,
shutting down the schools that teach them not only to read
but to fight for their land, dispossessing them of their natural
and sacred resources, and threatening to exterminate them.
This animated documentary is centered on a Catholic Manobo
teacher from Surigao del Sur, who remembers the darkest
night of her life at the brutal hands of the military and recalls
her fondest memories and dreams for the future of her Lumad
school and her students, struggling to make their way back
home.
farmlands over “Saka,” an originally composed, written,
and produced music, the film is a symbolic protest
in solidarity with four farmers who, in their agrarian
struggle to regain the land that was snatched from them,
were arrested during the pandemic on trumped-up
charges filed by a landlord clan in Cordon, Isabela. The
music video not only calls for justice for the Cordon
4 but also offers a paean for courageous peasants who
continue to fight for their land.

194 195
 ARCHIVE

BOTO PARA SA PAGBABAGO (Vote for Change)

Eunice San Juan / 2021 / Public Service Announcement / RT: 0:30
Lyceum of the Philippines University - Manila

A 30-second public service announcement that calls on people to participate in the national elections and exercise their right to
vote for change. However, instead of a straightforward informational PSA, the audiovisual presentation is molded as a thriller
filled with images of violence and sounds of wailing, performing the labor of remembering the victims of the Duterte regime.

ANG MGA BOSES SA PADER (The Voices in

the Walls)
Chic Cruz Mirano / 2021 / Fiction / RT: 16:08
University of Sto. Tomas

In this period film, Martina is a 20-year-old deaf

woman who returns to her childhood home wishing
to regain some part of herself she had lost with her
hearing years earlier. In their abandoned house, she
begins to hear voices from within the walls, voices
she soon realizes of her past selves when she was still
hopeful and idealistic despite the trauma her family
had suffered during Martial Law.

196 197
 REACTION SHOT
S
cenes Reclaimed: CCP 50 x Cinemalaya 15,
first mounted as an exhibit in 2019 and then
published as a book by the Cultural Center of
the Philippines (CCP) of the same name in 2021, was written
and designed by the curatorial team of Patrick Campos, Karl
Castro, Tito Quiling, Jr., and Louise Jashil Sonido. The book is
straightforward in its political stance. Its message is clear and
well-articulated, backed by an array of well-curated archival
documents, images, and objects that seek to reclaim history
amidst attempts of erasure and distortion. The force of the
work’s iteration as an exhibit was strong enough. However, with
our current political climate and the implication of the film
cultures contextualized in the overall work, the need for the
book becomes more pressing.
“#NeverForget,” the book begins, revisiting
history, highlighting the internal contradictions at play in
the construction and rise of the CCP. Doing so reveals the
dynamics of art, culture, and politics in the Philippines. True
to its name, CCP is the country’s cultural center. Still, while
culture might mean something monolithic to most, the
authors/curators of the exhibit demonstrate that as the center,
CCP has become the site of a series of dialectical contestations.
It is the site where ideas of what should be considered culture
or art and its social effects are negotiated.
The very foundations of CCP stand on reclaimed land
and shaky beginnings. According to the authors, as Imelda
Marcos’s project, it was meant “to rewrite cultural history and
educate the masses toward a set of tastes.”1 This project implies
a top-down approach to what is considered aesthetically
pleasing and of good taste, separating the masses from the
elites. The strategy was cunning: on the one hand, the project
was used to “educate the masses” about what is true, good, and
beautiful; on the other hand, the project portrayed the image of
the First Family as that which is true, good, and beautiful. The
book calls this move “making a scene,” crafting a narrative. The
First Family paints itself as a model that every other Filipino
family must aspire to be or admire. Not only does this move
legitimize their actions and decisions. It also makes them the
most authoritative judge of what is moral and right. The book
revisits Iginuhit ng Tadhana (1965) and Pinagbuklod ng Langit
(1969), campaign and propanganda movies that make it seem
like the Marcoses’ relation to power is by divine appointment.
With their awareness of this intimate relationship
between art and politics, the authors could give us a picture
of Philippine history through the development of Philippine
cinema via the institution of the CCP and, by extension, the
film festival, Cinemalaya Philippine Independent Film Festival,
or Cinemalaya. The authors detail how the promotion of this
elitist definition of art during the Marcos regime was coupled
with state censorship that bent and broke depending on the
First Family’s political needs.
198
The authors highlight how the boundary between
elites and the masses is put into question under the
administration of Corazon Aquino. The rhetoric of the CCP
under Aquino was encapsulated in the terms and processes
of Filipinization, democratization, and decentralization.
The CCP came to recognize popular forms such as komiks,
pelikulang bakbakan, and the like as art. But, of course, the
democratization of art is always Janus-faced. While film
as an art form can extend its access to marginalized and
unrepresented community members, it continues to be a potent
tool both for propaganda and protest. The book presents us
with documentaries that detail the Mendiola massacre and
other films that critique the shortcomings and crimes of the
administrations, not only of Marcos but also of Aquino and
every administration after, up to Duterte.
The book also touches on different issues such as the
portrayal and struggle for inclusion of Indigenous Peoples,
technological evolution and how it changes or reshapes film
history, the contentiousness of awards, award-giving bodies,
and film festivals and how they play a part in the implicit or
explicit politicization of art. These varied and overlapping
contexts explain why the authors problematize, and not only
champion, what it means to create and consume independent
films. What does it mean to be free or independent? And from
what? Must the independence of cinema be construed in a
veering away from the CCP’s and the country’s complicated
history, or must independence mean reclamation, a redefinition,
a retelling of them?
In talking about Cinemalaya, they wonder what
entails independence in artmaking. The book affirms that art
and politics are always already intertwined. Nevertheless, this
does not mean that freedom is unattainable. Reading this book,
I realize that in the very complex history of Philippine cinema,
independence entails a profound awareness and paying serious
attention to art’s relation to politics; to claim otherwise is, at
best, naïve and, at worst, Machiavellian.
“#NeverAgain,” the book concludes, emphasizing
that despite the unbearable burden imposed by a tyrannical
state that continuously coopts art for its caprices, artists and
filmmakers continue to fight for freedom. The ambivalence of
art, despite the odds, allows artists to retain a sense of agency
and independence. Even under heavy censorship, filmmakers
could make movies that pass the standards of ostentatious
Imeldific values; but viewed without the veil of Martial Law,
these movies provide a trenchant critique of the Marcoses.
And is this not the power of art? A simple story about a family
living in the slums is always already a reflection of the political.
Similarly, Deleuze and Guattari wrote: “The individual concern
thus becomes all the more necessary, indispensable, magnified,
because a whole other story is vibrating within it. In this way,
the family triangle connects to other triangles—commercial,
economic, bureaucratic, judicial—that determine its values.”2
REACTION SHOT
Quoting Lino Brocka, the authors maintain that to
make “Filipino” films “meant producing films that hurt, films that
disturb, films that do not let you rest.”3 There is no ivory tower for
Filipino artists and filmmakers to perch on because to be Filipino
means to be with the people. The Filipino artist will never escape
the responsibility of facing the truth and telling its story.
The strength of this book and the exhibition comes from
the curators/authors being able to collate and use a wide array of
textual, audio, and visual materials to recount the ongoing story of
Philippine cinema. They are attuned to the intricate interweaving
of art and politics in the Philippine context. A reader who claims
to be apolitical can use this book as a resource material for
appreciating specific films and cinema in general. Meant as an
exhibition catalog but exceeding such function, it is a pedagogical
book that follows a thematic organization. Its accessible text allows
a high school or college student to gain a broad picture of the
past without sacrificing historical context and rigor of argument.
Perhaps, the only reproach I could say was that the book was
not long enough to dig deeper into the other issues, such as the
representation of women and the LGBTQIA+ community in
Philippine cinema. On one level, it is a publication on CCP’s and
Cinemalaya’s history. However, the curators understood that by
writing a book on CCP and Cinemalaya, such a book could only
be a book on Philippine politics.
Gian Carla Agbisit teaches Philosophy at the University of Santo
Tomas in Manila. She is also a student of Comparative Aesthetics
at the Université de Picardie Jules Verne.
Some images from the critical pedagogical book
Endnotes
1 Patrick F. Campos, Karl Castro, Tito Quiling Jr., and Louise Jashil Sonido, Scenes Reclaimed: CCP 50 x Cinemalaya
15, ed. Patrick Campos (Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines, 2020), 7.
2 Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, (Minnesota, USA: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 17.
3 Campos, Scenes Reclaimed, 91.
199
 LONG TAKE LONG TAKE

A
t the turn of the century, the music video
as a form thrived in the Philippines.
It proved to be a conducive format for
young filmmakers and artists to use uncommon approaches
and emerging technology, packaged within a commercial,
promotional product broadcasted to audiences across the
country. Collectively, these works also document and depict
popular culture and subcultures involving the rich and
diverse music of Filipino musicians, from the independent
to the mainstream.1

“Any idiot can make an MTV [music video],”

Quark Henares recounts about being berated by a former
teacher. While music videos were often trivialized as a
Slapshock’s “Get Away” (2001) directed by Lyle Sacris features animated
commercial format instead of an art form, this dismissal scribbles obscuring the characters’ eyes. All images used with permission
was also an opportunity for filmmakers to experiment and
create interesting works. Seemingly anything was possible,
and looking back, the production company-slash-collective
Furball, Inc. emerged as a prolific hub producing many
music videos that received critical and popular acclaim.2
At the Intersection of Popular Music and Digital
Furball, Inc. gathered artists and creatives across Filmmaking
different practices such as independent filmmaking,
Music videos existed in a larger ecosystem at the
advertising, visual art, web development, video art, and
junction of broadcast media, radio, and the music industry. The
more. This new generation of filmmakers was in the
primary channels throughout the 2000s were MTV Philippines
right place at the right time, and with the sheer diskarte
and Myx, and running parallel to those channels were radio
(translation) and gumption that youth embraces, they were
stations NU 107.5 and RJ 100.3. Venues such as Mayric’s on
able to create music videos that left an indelible mark on
España Boulevard, Club Dredd on Timog Avenue, and '70s
Philippine popular culture.
Bistro on Anonas Street were gathering places for subcultures
On channels such as Myx and MTV Philippines, that would spawn bands that crossed over into the mainstream.
a pop singer like Kyla could birit (belt) over a montage The 18th Avenue Cubao compound, the Marikina Shoe Expo
of cockroaches crawling around a dilapidated mansion.3 (also known as Cubao X), and bar-slash-exhibition spaces like
Young artists whose names would come to be renowned in Big Sky Mind in New Manila would also be crucial places
international contemporary art would even cameo or work where filmmakers and musicians would gather and mingle.
behind the scenes of videos such as Sugarfree’s “Mariposa”
These were the platforms and spaces that were vital
(2003). Likewise, multimedia mixtures of analog film and
to the popularity of popular music in the Philippines in the
early video could collide, against the conventions of the
early 2000s. At the beginning of MTV Philippines in 2001, the
time, in videos such as “Get Away” (2001) by Slapshock.
standard practice was to air 80 and 20 foreign and local videos,
The production, distribution, and consumption of respectively. Then came Myx as a standalone channel in 2002,
popular music and music videos have changed leading up building upon the programming block on the now-defunct
to the present and continue to change. However, Furball’s Studio 23, reversing the ratio of MTV Philippines and showing
body of work is a solid temporal coordinate from which 20 and 80 foreign and local videos, respectively. Myx became
this writing can survey the milieu of the time, despite the especially popular with Filipino audiences because it screened
historiographical challenges. Unfortunately, many music music videos with lyrics onscreen, resonating with the collective
videos are not in a centralized archive; the main mode of recognition and affinity with karaoke.
access is unintentional archives on online streaming sites.
Local music was alive on radio waves, especially on
(Even the music video of “Ang Huling El Bimbo”4 on the
NU 107.5 and its TV counterpart, UNTV. In addition, the
Eraserheads’ official Vevo YouTube account is missing the
music industry was riding high on the waves of the success of
iconic and goosebumps-inducing zombie reanimation scene
Eraserheads in the 1990s, which heralded a new era for Filipino
of the Paraluman muse at the climax of the song.)
music as Original Pilipino Music (OPM) in both commercial
For clarity, the following discussions will indicate and popular consciousness. Music videos even had dedicated
in parentheses what specific medium is being referenced. categories at the NU Rock Awards.

200 201
 LONG TAKE
In the late ’90s, before the country’s widespread
adaptation of video technology, music videos were made in the
Philippines on a less prolific scale. Labels treated music videos
as a prize rather than a promotional supplement to be created
after a song became a commercial hit, according to HenaresThe
cost of 16mm proved prohibitive for record labels to invest in
music videos.
Still, the music video itself was also receiving critical
recognition as an art form, with works directed by award-
winning independent filmmakers early in their careers.
Mowelfund Film alumnus Raymond Red had directed Francis
Magalona’s “Kaleidoscope World”5 (music video, 1995) five
years before Red won the Palme D’Or at the 2000 Cannes Film
Festival. Auraeus Solito was awarded the MTV International
Viewer’s Choice Awards at the 1997 MTV Asia Music Video
awards for his work on the Eraserheads’ “Ang Huling El
Bimbo”6 (music video). Robert Quebral directed “Harana”7
(music video, 1998) for Parokya ni Edgar, which won the MTV
Viewer’s Choice Award for Southeast Asia in 1999.
Music videos became more viable as promotional
materials with the rise of three-CCD video cameras, such
as the Canon XL1, the Sony DSR-PD150 DVCAM, and
the Sony VX 2000. Standard formats were 16mm, Super8,
MiniDV, and Betamax, which Furball commonly used,
according to the group’s default line producer, Mads Adrias.8
Their earlier works, such as “Agent Orange” (music video, year)
by Slapshock, directed by Lyle Sacris, were also multimedia
works combining film and the VHS video assist that resulted in
a gritty, experimental look that stood out among the polished
videos of the time.
In the mainstream, the pervading sensibility of music
videos was polished and clean, where each shot would literally
depict or correspond to the song’s lyrics. It also reflected the
star formula of mainstream music focused on vocalists like
Regine Velasquez or Ogie Alcasid, possibly also drawing
from the aesthetic of telenovelas on local channels. Furball’s
works would depart drastically from these, heralding the new
generation of Filipino musicians.
Furball filmmakers were among the larger migration
of independent filmmakers from film to video, as the latter
proved a more affordable choice for filmmaking. Video enabled
filmmakers to circumvent many prohibitively expensive
steps in the shooting process, such as procuring film rolls,
renting cameras, processing film, ingestion, and digitalization.
According to Furball’s Line Producer Mads Adrias, using
video meant they were no longer required to go to big post-
production houses to edit after they built their own computer
that could handle the editing. They also preferred this self-
sufficient approach instead of entrusting their material to other
facilities, some of which, Adrias mentions, were known for
using expired chemicals.
202
The Rise of Furball
The young generation of filmmakers who would
form Furball was primed to adapt to new technology. Furball
initially started with three departments: film production, led
by Lyle Sacris; sound, led by Mark Lakay; and web design,
led by Carlo Estrada. The other filmmakers and artists who
would join Furball met in different places. Some were alums
of Mowelfund, the UP Film Institute, the UP College of Fine
Arts, and De La Salle University. Others were colleagues at
work. Others were musicians and artists who would frequent
art spaces and live music venues around the city.
The name “Furball,” stemming from an inside
joke, was also chosen because it did not overtly sound like a
production house, according to founder Sacris.9 He avoided
including the terms “productions” and “films” as well. Sacris’s
sentiment was that he was an outsider in production and
approach, with a clear anti-establishment attitude to boot.10
Initially, they planned to steer clear of hierarchies even in
the credits, where Furball as a whole would be credited as
the collective director, or the crew’s names would be listed
alphabetically instead of by department. However, as bills had
to be paid and livelihoods remained a concern, there was a need
to formalize as a company accountable to taxes with official
receipts and bureaucratic red tape.
The collective was eventually formalized as a company
and business in 2001 with the goal of making an artist-run
company, occupying offices around Quezon City. Many artists
associated with Furball worked as freelancers, often channeling
the income from commercial projects into art. They were also
active participants in underground art and film circles, often
hanging out at places such as Big Sky Mind, Mayric’s, and
Club Dredd.
In 2001, Furball had to leave its original Mindanao
Avenue base to find a new office space. Katya Guerrero, co-
owner of Big Sky Mind, offered them their recently vacated
print studio in a compound along 18th Avenue, Cubao. The
area was home to several artist projects across different fields,
such as filmmaking, contemporary art, and publishing. Among
their neighbors were Louie Cordero, the artist initiative
Surrounded by Water, Jun Sabayton’s space Canteen Plate
Gallery, and printing presses of women’s magazines and comics.
By the time Furball left their Cubao office space in 2008, the
compound had grown into a bustling creative hub.
Being situated in a space with fellow peers, Furball
reached out across their different networks for projects and
built a communal collection of equipment and resources within
the company. Given that budgets for music videos were limited,
DIY tactics were vital to making the concepts come to life and
influencing the cinematic treatment of Furball’s works.
LONG TAKE
Furball’s members have numerous anecdotes
demonstrating the sheer lengths of diskarte that the production
members went through. In addition, it was common for
personal funds to be shelled out to augment the production
costs, as was the case on many occasions for director RA
Rivera.11
The various interviews conducted for this article
had the Furball crew fondly recounting clutch moments and
mishaps. For instance, Slapshock film reels being stolen, trailing
veteran celebrity German “Kuya Germs” Moreno for a guerrilla
shoot (for Ciudad, “Make it Slow,”12 dir. RA Rivera), and
production designer Poklong Anading finding a Volkswagen
Kombi two hours before the call time for Teeth’s “Shooting
Star”13 (music video, 1999). Anading himself frequently re-used Chicosci occupies a stereotypical office space in the tongue-in-cheek “Shallow
materials on different sets. Some Furball members were also Graves” (2004) directed by Quark Henares
inspired by Dogme 95’s critical-aesthetic approach to spectacle
and technique via overproduction and the movement’s
determination to create films within limited budgets.14
A Mark of the Times
These conditions of film production and the music
industry are evident in Furball’s music videos, as works
were made during the transition from film to digital and
the subsequent adaptation of new artistic approaches. They
were telling of not just the technology of the time but the
character and idiosyncrasies of pop culture at the turn of
the century. With Furball being closely tied to outsider and
underground music and film circles, some music videos became
a documentation of these subcultures and youth culture.
Poklong Anading of the Art Department, affectionately called “Art Death”
It is crucial to note that because music videos were within Furball.
commercial in nature, the factors that determined their
screening were different from those of other movements in
concurrent alternative and independent cinema. Music videos
were broadcasted because of the song and artist they were
connected with, rather than the artistic merit of the video itself large, block text which was ubiquitous in the mid-2000s.
as film. If a music video’s artist or song were in high demand,
While the setting of “Shapeshifter” is not explicitly
then the video is “assured,” so to speak, of airtime. Compared to
a call center, a certain scene where a man in business attire
the music the video promoted, the video’s treatment, cast, and
smokes a cigarette as the sun rises is evocative of what call
crew were minor factors contributing to whether it would be
center agents experience daily, as their entire lifestyle and
broadcasted, when, and how frequently.
schedules revolve around graveyard shifts.
In Sandwich’s “Procrastinator”15 (music video,
dir. Quark Henares), the band sports layered haircuts and Interestingly, “Shapeshifter” is also a document of the
technicolor skinny jeans during an instructional video of rock shift of urban development’s priorities in Metro Manila. Shot
almost entirely within the then-sparkling new infrastructure in
poses–and not that of machismo glam rock, but of the disco
Bonifacio Global City, Taguig, the buildings and streets seem
and dance-influenced guitar and indie rock of the time. This
almost devoid of people aside from the band members. This
was, I argue, emblematic of the generation’s definition of cool
decade also saw a rapid rise in the development of high-density
in its off-kilter, reckless, take-it-or-leave-it kind of way. The
commercial and residential areas.
scene’s fashion is also evident in Taken by Cars’ dance-rock
tune “Shapeshifter”16 (music video, 2008, dir. Quark Henares), In the larger economic picture, in which the policies
which has Sarah Marco wearing a black statement tee with of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo’s administration actively supported
203
 LONG TAKE
A woman talks to a lover over an MMORPG (massively multiplayer online
role-playing game) in Sugarfree’s “Burnout” (2003), directed by Quark
Henares
the influx of foreign companies and, in turn, the growth of the
business process outsourcing (BPO) industry in the country
from the 2000s onward was also reflected in many films of
the time by Furball’s peers such as Cambio’s “Call Center” 17
(2007, dir. Marie Jamora). It cultivated a generation of young
white-collar workers drawn in by relatively competitive salaries
to offer services that catered to English-speaking populations
in the United States and other first-world countries.
The seething resentment and frustration that tends
to accumulate in such corporate settings were unearthed in
Chicosci’s “Shallow Graves” (music video)18. The band rages
around cubicles, pantries, and meeting rooms, unnoticed by
the employees taking water cooler breaks, having a cigarette
break by a non-smoking sign in a stairwell, and gazing at
photocopying machines churning out sheets that read “birth.
School. work. death.” The video culminates in the suit workers
(featuring cameos of Furball’s friends such as Ciudad’s vocalist
Mikey Amistoso and fashion designer Mich Dulce moshing
around the office).
Aside from this being in line with Gen X’s
characteristic sentiments of giving a middle finger to the man,
in “Shallow Graves,” Henares also satirizes the hollow promises
of meritocracy and employment benefits frequently peddled by
corporate AVPs. The video finds catharsis in corporate work in
favor of dancing and enjoying life, which ties back to the ethos
of Furball. After all the political and economic milieu of the
early 2000s, Furball was arguably an exception as an artist-run
company that consolidated freelancers looking to make a living
on their own terms of filmmaking, working, and recreation.
Another prominent cultural reference definitive
of the times was early computer shop culture and the rise
of online gaming, particularly massively multiplayer online
role-playing games (MMORPGs), which was documented in
Quark Henares’ video of “Chiksilog”19(year) by Kamikazee. It
was created to promote Ragnarok Online, one of the earliest
popular MMORPGs in the Philippines. The narrative features
204
Special effects feature prominently in Lyle Sacris’ award-winning
music video for Kyla’s “Hanggang Ngayon” (2001)
a budding romance between a young boy who finally gets
to meet a beautiful woman online. Unfortunately, however,
“Chiksilog’”s transphobic lyrical undertones (“Kaya pala ang
husay mo sa espada / Si maldita ay lalaki pala!”) have not aged
well.
On the other hand, Sugarfree’s “Burnout”20 (music
video) chronicles how the internet could become a tender
and vulnerable space for romance, with a young couple going
through romance and heartbreak via their online characters.
Vocalist Ebe Dancel anguishes in front of a chunky computer
monitor, eventually standing up to serenade a lost love with the
rest of the band. The young couple could change their clothes,
appearance, and behavior. The romance would culminate in a
real-life meetup, colloquially known as “EB” or “eyeball,” but in
this case, the woman glances past Ebe Dancel, foregoing the
encounter entirely.
These are some of the ways the internet had been
used socially in the early days of the formation of online
communities in the Philippines before the internet calcified
into the centralized structure of privatized and mercilessly
monetized social networks. These online games thrived on
the transition from dial-up internet to DSL broadband that
was being introduced in the Philippines. The use of avatars
and the anonymity they afforded also became an avenue for
people to create personas and aliases, which could be based on
or even depart from how people perceived themselves in real
life. It was a new form of expression that the internet enabled,
which, in actuality, could also be a space of empowerment and
self-actualization for women and the LGBTQ+ community to
subvert pervading gender and sexuality assumptions.
Slapshock’s “Agent Orange”21 (music video, dir. Lyle
Sacris) was not just a departure from the prevailing telenovela
sheen in terms of filmmaking, but vocalist Jamir Garcia’s
flaming red dreadlocks and bottom lip piercing were a defiant
flip-off to the mainstream. Slapshock was one of the main
forebearers of nu-metal, which also turned out to be a catalyst
LONG TAKE
A silhouette traverses the La Paz sand dunes in the Ayuz brothers-directed Rico Blanco stumbles across an abandoned phone booth in “Umaaraw, Umuu-
video of Down Boy Down’s “Twice Detached” (2008) lan” (2001) directed by Lyle Sacris
for works that would take on a grittier, edgier approach that a cameo as a man lying in a bloody bathtub. It reeks of death
Sacris’ direction complemented. and dilapidation, which, despite the macabre imagery, actually
circles back to the song’s sentiments of regret and loss. The
At the time, two prominent camps of Filipino music music video complicates the songwriting, adding contextual
scenes were rock and hip-hop, with few instances of bands
layers to a viewer’s experience of the song. An otherwise
crossing over between the two. With the kind of songwriting conventional ballad, in this case, becomes instantly memorable
and conventions ushered in by Western bands such as Korn,
for its music video, and it eventually garnered the Viewer’s
Linkin Park, and Evanescence, nu-metal also marked a peculiar
Choice Award for Southeast Asia at the 2001 MTV Video
yet fondly remembered era in which heavy rock music was
Music Awards.
widely accepted by the mainstream, well beyond its subcultures.
Nu-metal fans also counted among the employees of the new Aside from documenting popular culture, some of
generation of white-collar workers portrayed in Chicosci’s the videos, made against commercial odds, also ended up
“Shallow Graves.” being evidence of outsider music at the time, such as “Twice
Detached”24 (music video) by Down Boy Down. The video
Rivermaya’s “Umaaraw, Umuulan”22 (music video) also was shot on the same set as “Umaaraw, Umuulan” in the Lapaz
depicts the local subculture influenced by Britpop and New
Sand Dunes of Ilocos Norte. During the shoot proper, Jun
Wave, with Rico Blanco’s bleached hair and zipped-up parka,
Sabayton and Ernest Concepcion, billed as the Ayuz Brothers,
along with the song’s percussive rhythm that shares a kindred
stepped aside and shot this melancholy, slow-motion video of a
spirit with Blur and Oasis of the ’90s. The video also features
silhouette against a scorching sunset. In the trademark Furball
a vintage candy machine, a telephone booth stranded in the
humor, Concepcion’s YouTube description states:
middle of the desert, a goldfish bowl atop a lone television, an
homage to Rene Magritte’s painting The Son of Man (1946),
and other surrealist non-sequiturs. The song is a remarkable
1st video from the ‘Parasitism Film Movement.’ All
example of how Filipino musicians were able to channel foreign
props and equipment courtesy of Furball and the
influences to create material that resonated within our cultural
Rivermaya (“Umaaraw Umuulan”) production team
context. This was the new generation of musicians departing
and funds. Meaning, the entire video was made
from the essentialist inclinations of the Original Philippine
entirely [for] free. In the video, the Ayuz Brothers
Music movement to define what was “original” or “Philippine.”
also depicted what Cubao, Manila would be in the
Popular culture could be permeable, swerving between the
year 2040. Kind of like Mad Max-ish.25
foreign and the local, embracing influences, and expressing
culturally specific sentiments.
Lyle Sacris’ music video for “Hanggang Ngayon”23
The song features a lone, doe-eyed guitar player
by Kyla is an unsettling series of moving images that stand singing in a whisper, backed by dissonant guitar feedback—
in stark contrast to typical videos of her fellow songstresses. the kind of experimental music on Mads Adrias’ DIY label
Here, a specter of Kyla roams around an abandoned house dOCUMENTO Records, which was specifically for sound and
riddled with cobwebs and cockroaches. Kyla’s reflection takes noise art.
on a life of its own, moving independently of herself as it
distorts in a pose of longing. Slapshock’s Jamir Garcia makes
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 LONG TAKE
A marching band obliges a mourning mother’s wishes in RA Rivera’s
“Wasak na Wasak” (2007)
The aforementioned “Parasitism” mentioned by Jun
Sabayton was influenced by the Dogme 95 works brought
to the Philippines by Mowelfund. Though Dogme’s “Vow
of Chastity”26 are too strict to apply to these works (and, of
course, are not entirely applicable when transplanted from
its Danish context to the Philippines), the relationship it
proposes between films and their budgets, which is to say the
value of rejecting spectacle in favor of the director as an artist,
clearly resonated with several of Furball’s filmmakers such as
Sabayton.27
RA Rivera’s directorial work for the Beat-influenced
jazz band Radioactive Sago Project also embraces low-
budget, resourceful filmmaking that pays irreverent homage
to Philippine popular cinema and its conventions, tropes, and
cliches. The music videos for “Astro Cigarettes”28 and “Wasak
na Wasak”29, both of which were shot on expired film that
Rivera procured, are punk caricatures of the conventions of
Philippine romance and action films. The former’s climax
is a Fernando Poe Jr.-style fight scene interspliced with
grandmothers dancing the cha-cha. The latter concludes with
a Spanish colonial era Damaso-like fraile preaching to indios,
decrying a way of life that is wasak na wasak (translation). It
ties in with the volatile Frankenstein assemblage of genres
characteristic of Radioactive Sago Project’s music, in which
punk, marching band brass, nineties metal, and psychedelic jazz
collide.
The cultural and musical landscape of the time was
also paid homage to and memorialized in Rakenrol (2011),30
which Quark Henares directed. The feature-length narrative
film is a heartfelt ode to the Philippine music scene, in all its
quirks and idiosyncrasies: the exaggerated machismo rock
posturing, the obsession with mixtapes as CDs, the youthful
fashion, and how younger bands with melodic and twee musical
sensibilities were first rejected and eventually embraced by the
music scene. The film’s production involved the participation of
Furball members, including Ramon Bautista, who featured in
a slapstick scene of a music video shoot led by a quixotic diva
director.
206
A Furball meeting. From left to right: Mammu Chua, Mads Adrias,
Ernest Concepcion, Karlo Estrada, Lyle Sacris, Quark Henares, and RA Rivera
The discussions above are by no means an exhaustive
list of what Furball tacked in its works. Rather, this article
aims to illustrate the range of concerns and insights that the
collective tapped into during the period in which they were
active.
Changes in the Music Industry
The rise of piracy caused repercussions that rippled
throughout the music industry. Peer-to-peer networks such as
Limewire, Napster, and Kazaa became the go-to for younger
generations to access music for free. It was common to wait
10 to 30 minutes to download a two-megabyte song; for many
consumers, it was still faster and easier than making the trip to
a CD store. Since consumer CD burners were more available
and accessible, record label sales slowed down.
Affected as well were channels of distribution for
music. The MTV Philippines channel shut down in 2010.
The closure of radio station NU 107.5 in 2011 was another
dire blow to local musicians as a loss of a crucial channel for
independent musicians to cross over into the mainstream.
While Myx stayed strong, listeners’ viewing habits shifted to
the internet. YouTube, one of the leading platforms for viewing
music videos at present, was in its nascency in the early 2000s,
when monetization models for online videos were not as robust
as they are now.
The decision to invest in producing a music video
hinges on the premise that it will increase record sales. With
dwindling record sales and the narrowing of promotion
opportunities, music video budgets were also hit. Still, that did
not keep Furball from making videos that continued to provoke
and entertain as a community of collaborators dedicated to
creating stories on a shoestring. They made up for what they
lacked in terms of capital in attitude, reciprocal relationships,
and creative spirits. (Of course, getting paid was great, too.)
LONG TAKE
An online pandemic-era Furball gathering, in preparation for their Mamatay
kang Hayup na Covid Ka! week-long telethon
Furball Now
Furball moved out of their 18th Avenue, Cubao,
office in 2008, relocating to Makati and then Ortigas, before
letting go of having physical space. Its members also moved on
to other fields or pursued their careers in advertising, cinema,
music, abd contemporary art. It was a natural turn of events
considering the passage of time, but Furball never really ended.
In April 2020, several weeks after the government
implemented the Metro Manila lockdown due to the
COVID-19 pandemic, Furball launched Mamatay Kang Hayup
na COVID Ka!, a ten-day telethon featuring 24/7 programming
to raise funds for health care workers and frontliners. The line-
up featured a wide range of appearances: musical performances
from legends such as Raymund Marasigan and Ebe Dancel
to young and emerging musicians; informational sessions
educating viewers about the state of frontliners and COVID;
reunions of popular TV and radio personalities; and even movie
star John Lloyd Cruz. The line-up foregrounded Furball’s
extensive network of creative collaborators they built over their
existence, most of whom had come together voluntarily in
response to the pandemic.
Even the behind-the-scenes tech of the program was
run by Furball members and associates, working around the
clock to keep the stream running. For viewers, it was a welcome
reminder of art and the art community’s capacity to comfort,
alleviate, and unite people despite social distancing and
isolation. It was also a sign that the music scene was alive and
kicking despite gigs and other live gatherings being indefinitely
suspended because of the pandemic.
Ephemerality–It is What It is
Perhaps it could be said that this was a fragile,
fleeting time. Such is the nature of youth culture. Whether
Part of the Furball team. Photo by Jake Versoza
intentionally or not, the works mentioned above, whether in
form, technology, content, music, or narrative, are firmly dated
in popular culture of the early 2000s. They feature different
facets of subcultures ranging from the mainstream to niche and
outsider scenes, demonstrating the diversity of musical practices
during the decade.
Much of Furball’s history has existed through
anecdotes, and is documented nebulously as online posts,
magazine scans, articles, and of course, the videos themselves
on YouTube. Even those videos are often low-res versions with
sub-optimal audio and video by current standards, possibly as
remnants of YouTube’s early days before it supported high-
resolution streaming. Furball lives on in those who witnessed
and participated in its activities and through anecdotes and oral
stories, which were the basis of this article.
The cultural phenomenon of the time may have been
excluded or overlooked in written histories and documentation
because they were rendered ephemeral on multiple levels.
First, they had faced archival challenges, having been made on
early video technology that had been rendered obsolete. This
concerns not just the video capture technology at the time but
even the documentation of Furball’s scene. Even their infamous
Christmas parties were sparsely documented because cellphone
cameras were not widely available then, and early digital
cameras were still new. Nor were the social media platforms
popular at the time in the Philippines, namely Friendster and
Multiply, as ubiquitous as they are at present.
Mads Adrias31 frequently uploading behind-the-
scenes documentation of Furball shoots up on the social
network Multiply, which suspended its operations in 2013,
leaving a gap in publicly-available photo documentation of
the period. Photographer MM Yu, who graciously provided
photo documentation of Furball’s Cubao studio and events
for this article, had begun re-uploading documentation of the
Manila art scene from 2001 onward on the Instagram account
207
 LONG TAKE
@othermattersph.32 Other Furball members occasionally post
photos on their Facebook accounts.
A second level to archival challenges is that pop
culture is unfortunately assumed to be a product for mass
consumption rather than a subject of cultural study. Decades
earlier, Doreen G. Fernandez had already pointed out how
literary scholars and journalists tended to contextualize popular
culture according to the terms of their respective disciplines:
The problem with most of the above is that it is
done in isolation, without a clear perspective, and
unlocated in a definite context. There is, in no other
words, no concerted effort to define the Filipino
through his popular culture, or to synthesize findings
so as to determine this culture’s broad effects on
him. [...] the volume of available literature touching
on popular culture and related topics, much of it
is diffuse, unstructured, and not always focused
on either the significance of the popularity of the
cultural form, or the meaning of the cultural form
that has achieved such popularity.33
Fernandez builds a case for popular culture “as a
form of discourse serv[ing] as a potent force for persuasion
and value-building and for the perception of consciousness,”34
with the caveat of its reach extending to the urban population
in Metro Manila and other urban centers, and a limited
capacity in rural areas subject to the penetration of broadcast
technology. However, much has happened since the essay was
written in 1981, including and most especially the rise of the
internet.
Certainly, Fernandez’s case focuses on the broad
forms of mass media, including film, radio, television, and
print. Popular culture is already the subject of critical study,
and institutional recognition has gained traction since then.
However, what about the early 2000s dreadlocked nu-metal
growlers, dance punk nightcrawlers, and drunken jazz fusion
outsiders who, intentionally or not, embody anti-establishment
attitudes through DIY diskarte and youthful abandon? What
if their goals were to build a thriving artistic community, with
economic sustenance and livelihood being the more immediate
goal rather than critical acclaim and awards? Making a living,
of course, takes precedence in this case, especially considering
the precarity of freelance work in the Philippines. This does
not preclude the possibility of scholars and writers with the
economic capacity to initiate such studies and efforts.
Third, music videos, as popular culture, face their own
barriers toward being legitimate works of art and objects of
study. As discussed, music videos were typically a promotional
device that outsider approaches could hijack and were often
commissioned by record labels and musicians to keep up with
the demand for music. The statement “any idiot can make an
MTV,”35 as Henares recounted with amusement, says more
208
about gatekeeping attitudes toward art rather than the makers
of music videos themselves. To shut music videos out is to close
off a valuable documentation source of artistic movements.
Thus, a historical approach must provide the music
videos’ context, while an archival approach must also consider
the technology and consumption amid which these were made.
Not to mention early internet culture, including games, social
media, and proto-memes, is often blamed for being the cause
of the youth’s moral deterioration rather than acknowledged
as space and tool for their expression and agency. Rock and
roll—or more aptly, rakenrol—may still scare parents, but
perhaps Furball’s music videos are proof of the sharp awareness
and critical commentary that young artists provide as a
counterpoint to antiquated notions, should people give the time
to listen.
The historical ephemerality of Furball music videos
and the times they tell is not a failure of its movement;
sometimes, the adaptation and subsequence obsolence of trends
is part and parcel. After all, popular culture’s capacity to keep
up with an urban public’s swiftly changing tastes and concerns,
where what is trending today is passe tomorrow, is its strength
as a cause for and result of articulating a specific anchor in time.
Despite the archival circumstances concerning their
body of work, Furball’s legacy continues as they endure in the
spirit of collaboration, eagerness to adapt to new technologies,
and sheer willpower to see ideas carried out against the odds.
Even if they have parted ways to pursue individual careers, they
continue to revel in unconventional or new ways of filmmaking
and creative production amid changing technological
landscapes. Their work has arguably also influenced younger
generations of filmmakers inspired by their resourcefulness and
humor. Two decades strong, they deliver works that respond to
and shape pop culture, all punctuated by a mischievous wink.
Mariah Reodica is a writer and musician and currently
lectures at the University of the Philippines Film Institute
and De La Salle-College of St. Benilde. She has published
in the Philippine Star, Perro Berde, hcmf// (Huddersfield
Contemporary Music Festival), CNN Life Philippines, ANCX,
ArtsEquator, among others, and was awarded the 2018 Ateneo
Art Awards Purita Kalaw-Ledesma Prize for Art Criticism.
She is the vocalist and guitarist of the independent band The
Buildings.
LONG TAKE
Endnotes
1 This writing is also a continuation of my archival research about music 33 Doreen Fernandez, “Philippine Popular Culture: Dimensions and
videos in the Philippines, which had was presented as a screening program Directions. The State of Research in Philippine Popular Culture,””.
titled Motor Only Sync at The Hub, Escolta in April 2019, which featured Philippine Studies 29 no. 1 (1981): 26-44.
and contextualized music videos that evidence cultural and technological 34 Ibid.
signs of their times from the nineties to 2019. 35 Quark Henares, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom interview,
2 This article was made possible thanks to Furball members Lyle Sacris, January 13, 2022, quoted with permission.
Mads Adrias, RA Rivera, Quark Henares, Jun Sabayton, Edsel Uy, Lyndon
Santos, Poklong Anading, Kaloy Olavides, Mikko Avelino, and Iangco
Dela Cruz, who generously shared their stories and experiences over Zoom
interviews conducted in January 2022.
3 Kyla, “Hanggang Ngayon,” directed by Lyle Sacris, Polyeast Records, 2001,
music video.
4 Eraserheads, “Ang Huling El Bimbo,” directed by Auraeus Solito,
Cutterpillow, 1996, music video. Uploaded to the YouTube account
EraserheadsVEVO on October 26, 2009.
5 Francis Magalona, “Kaleidoscope World,” directed by Raymond Red, BMG
Records Pilipinas Inc., 2000, music video.
6 Eraserheads, “Ang Huling El Bimbo.”
7 Parokya ni Edgar, “Harana,” directed by Robert Quebral, Universal Records,
Buruguduystunstugudunstuy, 1998, music video.
8 Mads Adrias, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom interview, January 14,
2022, quoted with permission.
9 Lyle Sacris, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom interview, January 16,
2022, quoted with permission.
10 Ibid.
11 RA Rivera and Poklong Anading, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom
interview, January 29, 2022, quoted with permission.
12 Ciudad, “Make it Slow,” directed by RA Rivera, WMG and CD Baby Sync
Publishing, music video.
13 Teeth, “Shooting Star,” directed by RA Rivera, I was a Teenage Tree, 1999,
music video.
14 RA Rivera and Poklong Anading, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom
interview, January 29, 2022, quoted with permission.
15 Sandwich, “Procrastinator,” directed by Quark Henares, EMI Philippines,
<S> Marks the Spot, 2008, music video.
16 Taken by Cars, “Shapeshifter,” directed by Quark Henares, Cleverheads
Media, Endings of a New Kind, 2008, music video.
17 Cambio, “Call Center,” directed by Marie Jamora, MCA Philippines, Matic,
2007, music video.
18 Chicosci, “Shallow Graves,”, directed by Quark Henares, Viva Records,
Icarus, 2004, music video.
19 Kamikazee, “Chiksilog,” directed by Quark Henares, Rok On!, 2005, music
video.
20 Sugarfree, “Mariposa,” directed by Quark Henares, Sa Wakas, 2003, music
video.
21 Slapshock, “Agent Orange,” directed by Lyle Sacris, Octoarts, 4th Degree
Burn, 2001, music video.
22 Rivermaya, “Umaaraw, Umuulan,” by Furball, Viva Records, Tuloy ang
Ligaya, 2001, music video.
23 Kyla, “Hanggang Ngayon,” directed by Lyle Sacris), Polyeast Records, 2001,
music video.
24 Down Boy Down, “Twice Detached,” directed by Ayuz Brothers, 2008,
music video, www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdupBJTXAGo.
25 Ibid.
26 Lars Von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, “The Vow of Chastity,” 1995, www.
dogme95.dk/the-vow-of-chastity/.
27 Jun Sabayton, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom interview, January 16,
2022, quoted with permission.
28 Radioactive Sago Project, “Astro Cigarettes,” directed by RA Rivera, Terno
Recordings, Urban Gulaman, 2004, music video.
29 Radioactive Sago Project, “Wasak na Wasak,” directed by RA Rivera, Terno
Recordings, Tangina Mo Andaming Nagugutom sa Mundo Fashionista Ka
Pa Rin, 2007, music video.
30 Rakenrol, directed by Quark Henares, Furball and Reality Entertainment,
2011, feature-length film.
31 Mads Adrias, interviewed by Mariah Reodica, Zoom interview, January 14,
2022, quoted with permission.
32 Othermatters, Instagram account, Accessed on November 19, 2022,
instagram.me/othermattersph
209
 SHORT TAKE TALKING HEADS
W
hen the pandemic started in the first
quarter of 2020, it was as if the world
had reached a standstill. During that year,
the rules of lockdown in the Philippines included banning
mass gatherings, requiring people to stay home, halting the
on-site operations of establishments like offices, restaurants
and schools, and suspending public transportation. It was a
dangerous time as the coronavirus spread quickly, cases were on
the rise, and the death toll from the disease was a daily fare in
the news.
In 2021, some restrictions were eased, and by the
first quarter, people began to receive vaccinations to protect
themselves from COVID-19. However, according to a news
report, the severe Delta variant of the virus entered the
country in June 2021,1 which, according to the World Health
Organization, was “twice as transmissible as the original
virus, with one positive person potentially capable of causing
infection in another nine to 13 persons.”2 This strain had
contributed to a rapid rise in cases, thus increasing reported
daily deaths around the third quarter of that year. According to
the Department of Health, by December 2021, the Omicron
variant was detected in the country, a less severe strain than the
Delta.3
Meanwhile, to reopen the economy, more
establishments were allowed to operate in 2022. Malls
permitted more consumer traffic from previously limited
capacities; employees from work-at-home setups started
to return to their offices, while some schools began limited
on-site classes. Gradually, public transportation transitioned
from operating at limited capacity to total capacity. As of this
writing, the pandemic is still happening. Much could be asked
regarding the government response, affirmed by the economic
think tank IBON Foundation which characterizes the country
as one of the worst performers in pandemic recovery in
Southeast Asia.4 However, Filipinos have learned to live with
COVID-19, which for more than two years has already become
a fact of life to deal with for things to move forward.
As people negotiated their way around the health
crisis, unsurprisingly, the film industry adapted to the limitation
brought by it. This article explores how film productions
have coped with restrictions due to the pandemic. The frame
of inquiry comes from the notion that logistical limitations
necessitated adjustments, including the creative aspect of
filmmaking. To provide insights on their experiences in
shooting during the pandemic, interviewed for the article were
directors, a producer, and a director of photography. In addition,
it seeks to reveal new practices that emerged at this time and
which procedures and approaches these filmmakers see as
worth continuing beyond the medical crisis. The experiences
discussed in this article cover the period from March 2020 to
October 2022.
210
Inter-Guild Alliance Protocols and Guidelines
In May 2020, the Inter-Guild Alliance (IGA)
released its protocols and guidelines that aim to re-evaluate
and reconfigure how film production is carried out during
the period that the coronavirus remains a threat to health
and safety. This guide aims to minimize risk and infection in
all filmmaking phases. The alliance comprises various groups
from the Philippine film, television, and advertising industries.
As of July 2020, it is composed of the League of Filipino
Actors (AKTOR); Sound Speed Philippines (SSP); Lupon ng
Pilipinong Sinematograpo (LPS); TV and Film Screenwriters
Collective (TFSC); Alliance of Producers, Line Producers and
Production Managers (ALP); Guild of Assistant Directors and
Script Supervisors (GADSS); Kapisanan ng mga Assistant
Directors ng Patalastas (KAPS); Production Design Technical
Working Group (PD-TWG); Filipino Film Editors (FFE) in
cooperation with United Post Group (UPG); and the Directors’
Guild of the Philippines, Inc. (DGPI). These IGA protocols are
discussed in the following sections concerning the interviewees’
experiences in production during the health crisis.
Jed Medrano, Line Producer, Black Rainbow (2021)
Jed Medrano produces and line-produces feature films,
short films, ads, and branded content under her production
house, FBN Media. Liway (2019), Bagahe (2017), Paglipay
(2016), Bambanti (2015), and Missing (2013) are among the
films she has worked on as a freelance line producer. She is
likewise the line producer for Black Rainbow (2021), an entry
to the Sine Halaga, the National Commission for Culture and
the Arts (NCCA) Filipino Values Film Festival. It won the
Best Short Film Award, NETPAC Award, and Best Screenplay
Award at the 2022 Cinemalaya Independent Film Festival.
Filmmaker Zig Dulay directed all these films mentioned
(except for Liway, which he co-wrote).
As a line producer, Jed oversees the budget and the
daily activities during filming. She identified the following
additional costs due to the pandemic: a) COVID-19 testing; b)
additional vehicles for transportation; c) hiring a safety officer;
d) disinfection materials; and e) accommodations during lock-
in productions. All these are included in the IGA protocols. In
terms of procedures, testing is done before production begins
to ensure that no one is infected by the virus while filming.
Next, the seating capacity of production-hired vehicles must
follow the rules on social distancing. For example, for vans, only
two people should occupy each row. Meanwhile, production is
required to hire a DOLE-accredited Occupational Health and
Safety (OSH) Officer, or safety officer, to supervise and ensure
that the production implements the health and safety protocols.
This includes the general work area disinfection at certain times
of the day for all locations, sets, workspaces, equipment, and
props. Items for disinfection are additional costs as well.
211
 TALKING HEADS
Finally, the production houses the cast and crew in a
locked location for a specific duration. Additional expenses are
incurred from providing food and lodging to everyone. This
production mode is called “lock-in shoot” or “bubble” shoot and
is seen as a solution to prevent infection by controlling people’s
movements while principal photography takes place.
Black Rainbow did lock-in production twice in their
location in an Aeta community in Porac, Pampanga. Their first
lock-in was two days in October 2020. Unfortunately, they had
to halt shooting by noon on the third day and postpone taking
exterior shots since the rains were not letting up. The second
time was in November, which took them three days. Although
additional expenses were incurred in the production process,
Jed shared that there were also aspects she could save on:
“The advantage is that we can conduct preproduction online,
whether it’s Zoom or another platform. That saves us money
on transportation and food since it’s done online. Moreover,
there was little to no excuse for people not to attend an online
conference. Unless the people I’m meeting don’t have wifi
or their device is running low on battery, their location is no
longer a hindrance to meeting online. Plus, it’s recorded, so
there’s proof of points agreed on.”5
Another cost-saver concerned the printing of scripts.
“I just send, for instance, the department heads the file, and
they can just read it on their devices. Unlike before, I had to
give them printed copies whenever there’s a new version of the
script. Of course, come production time, I still have to print it.
But at least there were some savings. I like anything that can
save us money.”6
When asked about good practices that emerged in
the pandemic that she would want to keep, Jed was quick to
answer that it was the application of fixed working hours and
turnaround time. In the IGA guidelines, working hours are
pegged at 12-14 hours a day and a turnaround time of 10-12
hours. “I hope that practice is retained for other productions
where people are overworked and up for 24 hours or longer.
Our production works fast, and we pack up early even then
during the Bambanti days. We’re conscious of our limitations
financially, and we make use of minimal lighting. Thus, we only
have a few night scenes.”7
“People in both TV and film production were working
continuously for 24 hours. It was especially difficult to film a
television series or teleserye. They [the crew] were getting sick,
and even directors were dying. I believe that the FDCP (Film
Development Council of the Philippines) has started working
on protecting these workers. When Tito Eddie (Garcia) died
due to the accident, people started to review the industry
practices and the working conditions. Workers in production
started to speak out, unlike before, [when] they were scared
to do that out of fear that no one would hire them kasi wala
kang pakisama. The pandemic that hit in early 2020 served as
212
TALKING HEADS
a catalyst to put all of these [changes] into place.”8 After the
veteran actor’s death in June 2019 due to a cervical spine injury
when he tripped on a cable while taping for an upcoming
television series by GMA, the “Eddie Garcia Bill” was filed
in the House of Representatives. It sought to “protect and
promote the welfare of workers or independent contractors in
the film, television, and radio entertainment industry.”9
Jed added that a practice worth keeping in her line-
producing work was the cashless transactions that became
popular during the pandemic, like online banking and GCash
transfers. “I no longer have to bring a large amount of cash
for my payments. That reduces risk on my part. It also lessens
the paperwork since there’s no need for vouchers. The online
transaction automatically generates a receipt that serves as
documentation.”10
“Lastly, it’s good that people have learned to be more
conscious of their cleanliness and practices that ensure safety.
For example, people consciously try to observe social distancing
even at meal times and refrain from talking too much. These
Hello Stranger: The Movie (2021). Produced by Black Sheep. In the photo is Martika Ramirez Escobar, director of photography.
practices of controlling one’s actions are good to continue to The film was shot in Batangas in 2020. All images are used with permission
ensure safety at all times. This shows that people started to
prioritize health and safety, unlike before.”11
For this article, Martika shares her experiences as the cluster scenes, they should be feasible within one house, one
Martika Ramirez Escobar, Director of Photography, director of photography of Hello Stranger, directed by Dwein location, or one area. As we know, films have plenty of scenes
Hello Stranger (2020) Baltazar and produced by Black Sheep in 2020. “We were on with numerous locations. Because we’re limited to one area, we
lock-in for 21 days in a resort in Batangas around November adjust by doing everything within that location. For example,
Martika Ramirez Escobar is the writer and director
2020. It was still very strict at that time.”12 My interview with we have to set up a classroom in the resort. That’s an extra effort
of the short films Living Things (2020), for which she won the
her is referenced in the subsequent quotations in this sub- in production design and cinematography. For the latter, you’d
Best Director Award at the 2020 Cinemalaya Independent
section. have to create the mood for a space with the proper lighting.”
Film Festival, and Pusong Bato (2014), which was awarded Best
Short Film in the same festival in 2015. Her first full-length “Preproduction meetings were done online where “Furthermore, the lock-in shoot affected my
film, Leonor Will Never Die (2022), was awarded the World the key staff, meaning the director, cinematographer, assistant creativity as a DOP. It was dealing with a different kind
Cinema Dramatic Special Jury Award for Innovative Spirit at director, and production designer, talked about the technical of compromise—you have to make things work with the
the 2022 Sundance Film Festival, among others. aspects of the film, like how to mount a particular scene or limitations in the location. It’s like, ‘how will we make this feel
what the coverage is for a sequence. Such specific requirements like a different place or time of the day?’ Additionally, since you
as a crane or ronin are also discussed.”13 wouldn’t want the audience to have the impression of the film
being shot in just one area, even if that’s the truth, you can’t
“I prefer in-person meetings since I want to have a
take a wide shot so as not to give it away.”
detailed discussion on, for instance, what the director wants
and what areas she wants to explore. Another challenge was On the matter of social distancing rule, Martika
the cam test. For that, you try out different cameras, lenses, and explains, “It’s inevitable to be close with the people you’re
filters to know which fits the director’s vision. You can also test working with. For example, your focus puller is beside you and
special requirements, like if you want to try a particular zoom the person assigned to adjust the tripods and change the lenses.
lens of one brand compared to another. It’s usually done at the So that’s a challenging requirement for us.”
rental supplier’s place. Ideally, you’re with the director when
you do the cam test since it has to do with creative decisions On practices worth continuing, she emphasizes,
that will affect the film. Because of the challenges due to the “Definitely, it’s the 12-14 shooting hours. That’s the most
makatao (humane) change I love. And because we’re still in
pandemic, I did the cam test with my camera operator and sent
the pandemic, it’s the awareness of being extra careful on set.
Dwein what I think will work for the film.”14
It’s good that people are no longer smoking everywhere since
“One more thing I found challenging was the rule there are already designated areas. It’s more organized. I also
Hello Stranger: The Movie (2021). Produced by Black Sheep. Fourth from the
left is Martika Ramirez Escobar, director of photography, with the camera
on only one shooting location allowed per day or ‘walang like that there would still be a safety officer, even beyond this
department. The film was shot in Batangas in 2020 baklas.’ That’s difficult since it means that if you’re going to crisis, to ensure that workers are well taken care of and the
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working hours are followed. And if any [medical] symptoms are
exhibited, somebody can attend to it. The continued presence
of a safety officer at every shoot would ensure that there aren’t
any abuses taking place on set. By abuse, I mean I’ve seen grip
people working for four days straight. Their eyes are red when
you take a close look.”
Escobar continued, “On realizations on film
productions during the pandemic, it’s understanding that in the
world of film or any production, we need to adapt to whatever
situation we’re confronted with if we want to continue making
films. There will always be a way. Besides, obstacles are ever-
present: if it’s not money, it’s the pandemic; if it’s not the
pandemic, it’s going to be something else. So it’s more of
dealing with the circumstances and making the best out of the
resources you have at the moment.”
Pam Miras, Filmmaker and Second Unit Director for GMA
Pam Miras is a director and screenwriter for film
and television. Her feature debut, Pascalina (2012), won Best
Picture at the 2012 Cinema One Originals. Her short films
have won awards and screened and competed in international
festivals. She is currently employed as a director for local TV
dramas. In 2021, she wrote Kitty K7 (2022), produced by
Vivamax.
This portion departs from film production proper to
provide an understanding of television production during the
pandemic. The Philippine entertainment industry is composed
of intersecting communities of TV and film, where workers and
artists traverse both fields.
Since the pandemic started in 2020, Pam has worked
as a second unit director on four mini-series for GMA. She
explained how lock-ins for such television programs work: “For
eight weeks, my crew and I would be locked-in for production.
It’s like being an OFW (Overseas Filipino Worker). The shoots
are usually two to three days straight, with defined working
and turnaround hours daily. And then you have breaks—so
two days, then break; three days, then break, until you’re done
shooting. My interview with her is referenced in the subsequent
quotations in this sub-section.
“I used to see cameramen or gaffers have shoots that
end at two a.m. and then proceed to another show’s shoot with
a six a.m. pullout. That’s no longer allowed nowadays. There has
to be a turnaround time from the pack up to your next work.
Safety officers are also required. I hope the 12 to 14 working
hours and turnaround time will continue in the industry
beyond the pandemic or even when there’s no more need for
lock-ins”15
Pam added: “I see some crew members prefer lock-
ins since they can save on transportation and meals. But
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TALKING HEADS
the downside is that you can’t accept other work until the
production is finished. Let’s say, for actors, they don’t have
scenes to shoot on all days that they’re in the bubble for eight
weeks. They’re not paid for those days that they don’t work.
That happens to me as well. There are days when the second
unit is not scheduled to do production, so we’re not paid for
that since we’re locked in.”16
On challenges as a director during the bubble shoots,
she shared, “It’s building a world that feels like it’s not the
pandemic while shooting in a pandemic-stricken space. We
need to create an illusion that it’s a different place. Actually,
that’s the joke that we have about what’s happening in the
teleserye. It happens in the present, but there’s no crisis. It’s
an alternate reality. At least for TV, nobody wants to watch
something set in a pandemic situation. So we need to show
that.”17
“You also need to plan the spaces well. That’s another
challenge—shooting in one location per day. Writers had to
situate the narratives within the existing spaces. Additionally,
you can’t have huge crowds, unlike before, when you were given
20 to 25 extras for that. Now it’s only around five to 10 talents.
With that location limitation and your few talents, how can
you make it look like it’s still part of the real world? That’s the
challenge creatively.”
“I no longer write for TV, but I observed that there are
also lessons for writers when creating stories to be shot during
the pandemic. All the limitations I mentioned earlier make for
tighter storytelling. Writers have been forced to streamline the
characters and the story. They’re trained to make things tighter
and simpler. It’s writing a story around what resources are
available. But through all these, you discover that you have the
ability to adapt to the circumstances.”
“We also realized that these considerations affect the
kind of stories that get made and, thus, the kind of content we
The Fake Life (2022). GMA television series. Pam Miras, Second Unit Director
Black Rainbow (2021). In the photo are cast members Shella Mae Romualdo
and Ron King. Art director Richard Aguillon holds Ron King. On the right is
director Zig Dulay
get to watch. Some stories are put on hold or shelved since it’s
impossible to produce them now. Then, possibly when things
ease up, they can be made.”
“I also saw that against the usual practice of coming
out with a script every week, since the pandemic, writers had
to finish, let’s say, writing the episodes for at least half of a
season. For a 16-week season, that is eight weeks. There used
to be weekly adjustments in the story based on how the ratings
were going. Now, that’s no longer done. I’d say that’s one of the
good things that came out of this. It’s ideal on the production
end since you can prepare before you shoot. I hope that practice
continues.”
Pam described her observations on film. “It’s no
longer the cinemas that people patronize. People go for
what’s streaming online. The mode nowadays is to earn from
subscribers instead of ticket sales. A subscription is cheaper.
Moreover, the budget for film production has been slashed to
half or a third of what it used to be. As filmmakers, you need to
adjust to that. If you don’t, then there’s no work. How are you
going to survive?”
“Most of the filmmakers I know are working for Viva
since it constantly needs content. And since the budget shrunk,
the stories have also become ‘smaller.’ Sex sells, and currently, a
great deal of content on sex is being streamed.”
“Through all these changes brought about by the
pandemic, this crisis had driven the formation of guilds: like
AKTOR for actors and screenwriters [Filipino Screenwriters
Guild]. People used to be just focused on their own thing, but
when the pandemic hit and many were out of work, people
learned to reach out to each other. Even just for emotional
support and not necessarily financial help. There was a kind of
solidarity built in the industry.”
Black Rainbow (2021). In the photo is director Zig Dulay (5th from left). To
his right are cast members Shella Mae Romualdo and Ron King (extreme
right). The rest of the children in the photo are extras in the film who are from
the Aeta community in Porac, Pampanga.
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 TALKING HEADS
Zig Dulay, Director, Writer, and Editor, Black Rainbow (2021)
Zig Dulay is the writer and director of Bagahe (2017),
Paglipay (2016), Bambanti (2015), and the short film Missing
(2013). He is the co-writer of Liway (2019) and Ekstra (2013).
In addition to its wins in the 2022 Cinemalaya, Black Rainbow
has garnered international awards, such as the Jury Award from
the Kas International Film Festival 2022, held in Turkey, and
the Best Short Film Award for the 2022 Harlem International
Film Festival in New York.
Zig shared that the film’s original story is set in an
Aeta community in Botolan, Zambales. However, the pandemic
posed challenges in reaching the location, so he opted to shoot
in Porac, Pampanga. However, he learned that the difference
in terrain and geography from the previous location meant a
corresponding difference in the culture and way of life for the
Aeta community in Pampanga. This shift entailed research
that started from scratch on the ethnic group in the new
location. For four to six weekends, he went to Porac to study
the community through his interactions with its members,
hold auditions, and conduct workshops for the local cast.
He additionally had a story consultant from the community,
Norman King, who is also part of the film’s cast. Another
consultant was anthropologist Tess De Guzman of UP Manila.
For Zig, this process ensured that he did not commit the
common mistake by mainstream media of misrepresentation or
underrepresentation of Indigenous Peoples.
Zig explained that before visiting the community, he
coordinated with Norman online. The latter helped facilitate
and organize matters like the workshop venue before he went
there. Zig described that every weekend he went to Porac,
he got tested for COVID-19. At that time, in 2020, the
community had zero cases. He ensured that he or anyone in the
production would not transmit the virus to the people there.
He said, “I learned from our lock-in shoot that creating a circle
of safety during film production is important. You have to let
both the production crew and the community feel that their
safety takes primacy over everything else, even over the film
itself. And I think that’s important to continue even when this
pandemic is over.”18
“I saw during the pandemic how crucial it was to
accomplish everything needed in preproduction to lessen any
tasks on the set during production. This includes rehearsals,
script-reading, informing the staff of the shots to be taken and
everything else that needs to be done.”19
Zig continued on lessons learned: “Filmmaking or
storytelling as a whole helped in battling the afflictions caused
by the pandemic. It is an act of service in various ways. First, as
a filmmaker, you serve the story by crystallizing it and giving
it form through film. Next, I recognized that as a filmmaker
during the crisis, you have the power to create jobs for people.
When a project is offered to you, that’s when the opportunity
216
arises, just like a series of short videos I made for NCCA,
which was able to provide work for others. Those who work in
production, in turn, serve each other since collaborative effort
is needed to create a film. Furthermore, film as a product serves
the audience through the stories it tells. When a story resonates
with its viewers, that is the service the filmmaker receives
through the fulfilment of what she or he created. That’s how
filmmaking as an act of service comes full circle.”20
Furthermore, he shared: “People, in general, have
been feeling down, and there’s a high level of anxiety during
the pandemic. I learned that making films will save you during
this difficult time. Filmmaking will somehow help you escape
all the madness created by this crisis. And in some way, that
also helps you realize that despite the situation, you can still be
productive. That does a lot in keeping your sanity.”21
Finally, in his capacity as editor, Zig believed that this
role ensures that all the limitations of shooting a film during
COVID are concealed. “The result must be an output in which
the audience will not feel something’s wrong because of the
restrictions that constrained the production.”22
Roman Perez Jr., Director for Vivamax
The streaming platform Vivamax was launched in
January 2021. As of April 2022, it has gained three million
subscribers according to Carvajal.23 Among the various content
it produces are adult films, which Roman Perez, Jr. has been
directing since 2020. “It started with Adan. That started the
wave of what we have now. Adan is a lesbian erotica film. We
just wanted to join a film festival. It flopped in the cinemas in
2019. It was removed from the theaters just after a few days’
run. Then the pandemic hit. In March 2020, Viva sold Adan to
iFlix. It was top in Southeast Asia for March, April, and May
2020. Viva figured out that that was the magic of streaming
cinema—erotica. By around April or May 2020, I had already
signed a contract with Viva. I was given the script for The
Housemaid, an iconic film in Korea that Viva bought. Kylie
Versoza was launched. It also starred Jaclyn Jose and Albert
Martinez.”24
“I was shooting The Housemaid around August and
September 2020. It was a lock-in shoot for 15 days. I could
say I was the most daring director to shoot in the early part of
the pandemic. No one was shooting then. Even ABS-CBN,
TBA, Regal, and Spring Films weren’t shooting. They just had
projects in the pipeline. But we in Viva were shooting.”25
“The IGA protocols were already in place then. I think
it’s not effective. It’s the people from the commercials that
came up with it. It wasn’t being followed strictly. Technically,
in lock-in shoots, no one should be going home. But our art
department people during that time would go home. There
were also changes in the technical crew. When our 4K light
TALKING HEADS
encountered a problem, it had to be changed. The equipment
rental personnel went home, and a different person returned to
the set. Our technical PA said that happened twice.”26
“I myself stayed inside the bubble. I was scared at
that time. I have children. The core team didn’t leave. My wife
who’s my AD, my DOP, and I stayed during production. Still,
my wife and I and the script con [continuity supervisor] got
COVID. I was sick for the entire month of October 2020.
When I tested positive, The Housemaid wasn’t completed yet.
Director Law Fajardo took over the last shooting day with
AD Karla Pambid. That year was a really dangerous time to do
films.”27
“The Housemaid was produced in 2020 but was
released in September 2021. The shoot was an experimental
setup during the earlier phase of the pandemic. Further, into Putahe (2022) from Vivamax. Directed by Roman Perez Jr.
the crisis, we created a system of lock-in for seven days. Taya
[2021] was the guinea pig. For that lock-in, no one was allowed
to leave. I already had COVID. I didn’t want that to happen
again.”28
Furthermore, Roman detailed his preproduction
process. “Script analysis, script-reading, scene by scene—all
these were done online. I even had acting and ‘sensuality’
workshops done online in 2021. But I didn’t do the ‘look’ test
online. I wanted to see that for myself.”29 According to an
article written by Tomada, a sensuality workshop helps actors
doing intimate scenes become comfortable with each other and
establishes a connection between them.30 According to Roman,
its aim is to make the actors understand the motivations and
levels of erotica. For the look test, he said it intends to see the
chemistry between actors and how the wardrobe looks on them. Hugas (2022) from Vivamax. Lead actors Sean De Guzman and AJ Raval with
director Roman Perez Jr.
“I didn’t like preproduction done that way, but I
realized it was possible. It’s economical, and we get things
accomplished much faster. There’s no need to look for a
common time to meet physically, and the waiting time for
people to arrive is eliminated. But I don’t mind waiting. I
miss talking to people face-to-face. There’s a different kind of
understanding there. It’s good that when the time to shoot the
film arrives, we don’t mess up since prior to that, we were only
able to meet online. It’s because I’m very careful with the details
in preproduction. Actually, there’s that possibility that things
won’t go well when you’ve only been doing preproduction
online. Now, there are more opportunities to do preproduction
on-site, and we have been doing that.”31
“Taya had online auditions in 2021. Many girls
auditioned for that film. The girls in the film—AJ Raval,
Angeli Khang, and Jela Cuenca—came from these auditions.
I accepted them online. AJ had already done Paglaki Ko, Gusto Hugas (2022) from Vivamax. Directed by Roman Perez Jr. Shot in Dona
Kong Maging Pornstar [2021] at that time. She auditioned in Remedios Trinidad, Bulacan in 2021
June 2021 for Taya. Even Sean De Guzman, the film’s male
lead, came from an audition.”32 My interview with him is
referenced in the subsequent quotations in this sub-section.
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 TALKING HEADS
The director described the challenges he encountered
in filmmaking during the pandemic and how he handled
these: “It was difficult in 2020. Interaction within the set was
minimized. There was the ‘pod system’ wherein the production
area was divided into pods or camps. There was a camp for the
actors and one for the director’s team. That’s challenging for me
as the director. We were disconnected. Our movements weren’t
in sync.”
“Next, I found the process slow. I work fast. The art
department was the first to set up; then the lighting was set
up; then the AD would set up to rehearse the talents; and then
only did my turn come to block it. It was slow-paced. That’s
why we came up with a system of pre-set-ups for the sets and
lighting. When the actors arrived, we would first meet outside
the lock-in area. I’d chat with Albert Martinez and Tita Jane
[ Jaclyn Jose] about how to do a scene. We observed social
distancing.”
“I would do the blocking, then take the scene. We
had to change the system because we weren’t connecting and
the connection was needed to make a film. I was disconnected
from the talents, my DOP, my staff. I was separate from them,
just looking at a monitor. That wouldn’t work for me since I was
trained as an AD, so I’m used to being in the set. So we had to
modify the initial system. Finally, when the system worked, the
production became prolific. We were fast. That’s why we were
able to produce many films in 2021.”
He further explained other difficulties he experienced:
“The process can also be taxing. There’s no room for mistakes.
That’s my grounding since I also came from theater. I challenge
the actors and tell them there’s no room for errors. If we make a
mistake, we have to start from the top, especially with the love
scenes. It has to do with disinfecting the set. There’s a lot of
kissing and touching in these scenes. After the take, we would
disinfect and dismantle. You’d have to repeat that process, and it
takes time. That’s why I tell them we need to get it right in one
take. If not, that’s an additional hour. Thus, they’re forced to do
it right.”
More than two years into the coronavirus pandemic,
people have gotten used to living with the situation and have
chosen to deal with it as a part of life. According to Roman, “It
was not as scary to shoot in 2022. We shot in Barangay Baseco
in Manila for Sitio Diablo [2022], starring AJ Raval and Kiko
Estrada. Even Tita Ruby [Ruiz] went to Baseco. It was a lock-
in shoot, and we stayed in the Manila Grand Hotel. One of
the talents, my DOP, and my production designer got COVID.
Actually, production was more daring. COVID was not as bad
as when it hit earlier.”
He shared lessons learned in film production during
the crisis: “The good thing about lock-in shoots is that you can
control the narrative because you’re continuously working on
it. And everybody is focused on work. There’s that conditioning
218
that we need to finish by the seventh day. By then, we’ll have a
finished product, and we’ll party. And we’ll get paid.”
“People in the set during lock-in can concentrate on
the details. Even the talents like that process better because
they can stay in character. Even the way they look doesn’t
change. If men grow a moustache gradually, that’s fine. There’s
continuity. And then when they go home, they see their
boyfriends or girlfriends, and that’s the end. When they return,
they’re no longer in character. Additionally, you’re all in sync—
the DP, the production staff, the producer, the designer. You just
glance at each other, and you understand. The result is a good
output.”
“That’s the major lesson I learned. The momentum is
sustained during lock-in. This year [2022], we’re still doing it.
Even if some request they go home since COVID is gone, I
don’t allow it.”
“Another thing I appreciate is the 12 hours of working
time. We need to take care of ourselves. It’s all a waste if we get
sick or die from working. As for me, after 12 hours, I’m done.
That’s a good practice to continue. I heard that the 24-hour
working schedule, without turnaround time, has returned in
commercials, TV, and film productions. The IGA protocols are
already being forgotten. Since the Eddie Garcia Bill is not yet
a law, the old system has returned. There have been complaints
about this aired on Facebook. Viva’s instruction is 12-14
working hours. In my production, when I feel I’m done for the
day, I tell them to turn off the generator. Even if the producer
still wants to proceed, I’m done. I tell everyone to rest.”
“As for creativity during the pandemic, I saw that the
more you’re limited, the better you do things. The more you’re
pressed for time, the more you become creative in finding ways
to accomplish your work. With limited resources, you become
more precise in your ways. What’s exactly needed is what’s
delivered. And you work more efficiently. Once you arrive on
the set, you need to be prepared, and you need to be precise.
Decisions, creative inputs, and blockings need to be exact.
There’s no room for mistakes. You can’t be fickle about the
setups since there’s disinfection to consider; stuff will be moved.
And you’d have to start over again. So prepare well.”
“The senior actors appreciate these changes. I’m quite
sure if Eddie Garcia were alive, he’d be happy with this system.”
Conclusion
Just when we thought it would take long before the
film industry could produce movies again due to the pandemic,
protocols and guidelines were put into place to ensure people’s
safety during film production. Of course, the system was not
perfect, but it enabled filmmakers to pursue their passion for
this art (and business). Furthermore, it boosted the streaming
TALKING HEADS
platform, becoming a leading new mode for film distribution
and reception.
Film movements that emerged in the past were shaped
by the cataclysmic events of their time and place. Similarly,
as the pandemic continues, an evolution has introduced new
practices that redefined the cinema landscape. Whether these
continue beyond the crisis is a question yet to be answered
when this is all over. What is certain is that film production is
an endeavor that persistently survives and thrives, even in the
harshest of times.
Chrissy Cruz Ustaris is a documentary filmmaker and a
lecturer in the Department of Communication at the Far
Eastern University-Manila. She received her MA in Media
Studies (Film) at the University of the Philippines Film
Institute and is currently pursuing her Ph.D. in Philippine
Studies at Tri-College, UP Diliman.
Endnotes
1 Gerard Naval, “LGUs Placed on Alert for Delta Variant,” Malaya Business
Insight, June 22, 2021, accessed on November 28, 2022, malaya.com.ph/
news_news/lgus-placed-on-alert-for-delta-variant.
2 Rocel Ann Junio, “Minimizing the Impact of the Delta Variant in the
Philippines,” World Health Organization, August 31, 2021, accessed on
November 28, 2022, www.who.int/philippines/news/detail/31-08-2021-
minimizing-the-impact-of-the-delta-variant-in-the-philippines.
3 Republic of the Philippines Department of Health Staff, “DOH
Confirms Detection of Local Cases of Omicron Variant,” Republic of
the Philippines Department of Health, December 31, 2021, accessed on
November 28, 2022, doh.gov.ph/Press-release/DOH-CONFIRMS-
DETECTION-OF-LOCAL-CASES-OF-OMICRON-VARIANT.
4 IBON Foundation, “PH among worst performers in Southeast Asia,”
IBON, June 13, 2022, accessed on November 28, 2022, www.ibon.org/
ph-among-worst-performers-in-southeast-asia/.
5 Jed Medrano, interviewed by Chrissy Cruz Ustaris, Online Interview, July
29, 2022, quoted with permission.
6 Medrano, Online Interview, July 29, 2022.
7 Ibid.
8 Ibid.
9 M.A.P. Soliman, “Understanding the Eddie Garcia Bill,” Business World,
March 5, 2021, accessed on November 28, 2022, www.bworldonline.com/
editors-picks/2021/03/05/348216/understanding-the-eddie-garcia-bill/.
10 Medrano, Online Interview, July 29, 2022.
11 Ibid.
12 Martika Ramirez Escobar, interviewed by Chrissy Cruz Ustaris, Online
Interview, September 4, 2022, quoted with permission.
13 Escobar, Online Interview, September 4, 2022.
14 Ibid. Subsequent quotations within the sub-section is referenced from the
same interview with Martika Ramirez Escobar.
15 Pam Miras, interviewed by Chrissy Cruz Ustaris, Online Interview,
August 1, 2022, quoted with permission.
16 Miras, Online Interview, August 1, 2022.
17 Ibid. Subsequent quotations within the sub-section is referenced from the
same interview with Pam Miras.
18 Zig Dulay, interviewed by Chrissy Cruz Ustaris, Online Interview,
September 1, 2022, quoted with permission.
19 Dulay, Online Interview, September 1, 2022.
20 Ibid.
21 Ibid.
22 Ibid.
23 Dolly Anne Carvajal, “Vivamax’s Success Story,” Inquirer.Net, April
30, 2022, accessed on November 28, 2022, entertainment.inquirer.
net/447050/vivamaxs-success-story.
24 Roman Perez Jr., interviewed by Chrissy Cruz Ustaris, Online Interview,
October 19, 2022, quoted with permission.
25 Perez, Online Interview, October 19, 2022.
26 Ibid.
27 Ibid.
28 Ibid.
29 Ibid.
30 Nathalie Tomada, “Paraiso stars undergo ‘sensuality’ workshop,” Philstar
Global, November 5, 2012, accessed on November 28, 2022, www.
philstar.com/entertainment/2012/11/05/863342/paraiso-stars-undergo-
sensuality-workshop.
31 Perez, Online Interview, October 19, 2022.
Ibid. Subsequent quotations within the sub-section is referenced from the
32
same interview with Roman Perez Jr.
219
 SHORT TAKE SHORT TAKE

W
ith the continuous technological shift in
the Philippines, industries have experienced
accelerated changes that have led to
individuals becoming content creators on various multimedia
platforms rather than filmmakers more traditionally. Video
storytelling has been democratized and has given opportunities
to audiovisual artists through streaming services to be spaces
for creative practice. Films, whether short or full-length in any
genre, can now be seen in cinemas and smaller screens, from
televisions to mobile phones and tablet computers. Given these
developments, we thought about how we can assist young
filmmakers in becoming storytellers with unique perspectives.

Making a film is a collaboration born from an initial

dream, an insight, or an inspiration. A starting filmmaker
who encounters challenges along the way in development,
pre-production, production, post-production, marketing, and
distribution processes needs guidance to break through.

The Film Dream started on June 11, 2013, as a personal

blog that shared reflections and discoveries in our own filmmaking
journey but eventually shifted to supporting young Filipino
filmmakers. Because film festivals happen throughout the year, The
Film Dream gets involved in the early phase of the filmmaking
process to help those who are determined to craft and share their
stories. We gravitate toward stories of truth, hope, justice, faith,
hope, and love, as told by early-career Filipino storytellers. To date,
The Film Dream has helped over a hundred young filmmakers
from different parts of the country.

While it is true that passion is a vital ingredient, a lot

of the filmmakers that we collaborate with are concerned about
whether they’ll continue doing films or just find another job that
is more financially rewarding. Many young filmmakers face a
common struggle—funding and resources. Most of the time, if
they can’t find a film grant or sponsorships, they shell out money
from their own pockets.

According to Marc Misa, the director of Crossing, an

entry to the Cinemalaya Philippine Independent Film Festival
2021 (Cinemalaya 2021), he struggled to secure development
funding for most of his projects. He stated in an interview with us
that he is certain he wants to continue with the project, but he also
must face the reality that he has a family to support.1

Arjanmar Rebeta, the director of An Sadit na Planeta,

another entry to the Cinemalaya 2021, said that he came to a
point wherein he was torn between producing a film or finding
another job to support his family. According to him, “Noong
nagdesisyon ako na magpunta sa filmmaking, sobrang suntok sa
Filmmakers at work. All images are used with permission
buwan. Kasi panganay akong anak tapos may responsibilidad ako
na makatulong talaga. Pero noong nagdesisyon ako na mag-focus
sa filmmaking or sa photography noong una, parang alam kong
magkukulang naman ako sa pagtulong kasi titigil ako sa trabaho
ko na stable na ‘yon talaga ‘yong nakakapagbigay sa akin ng
monthly na sahod.”2
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 SHORT TAKE

John Paulo Comediero, a Batangueño filmmaker,

shared that the resources for their film project were very
Dan Pascual is a communications educator and founder of The
limited, so they had to improvise and make do.3 The film’s
Film Dream.
bar location was set up in their university’s studio, while
customized backdrops, colorful lights, and bottled drinks were Kenneth Luna is a writer, producer, and the Content Head of
thrown in to create the mood while cutting production costs. The Film Dream. www.thefilmdream.com
Janille Ann Go, who directed Parangalan as her entry
to Knowledge Channel’s Inter-Collegiate Contest, faced the
same situation. She wanted to keep the cost of production as
low as possible, but at the same time, she wanted to make a
good documentary.4 Fortunately, she has supportive friends
who shared their time and resources to make her project
Endnotes
happen.

Student filmmakers Raymond Cultura, the director
of Al Basir an entry to LYCINEMA, and John Bolivar, who
directed Manggagalaw, an entry to the Metro Manila Film
Festival in 2019, did not only have limited resources.5 They also
had a hard time managing their finances.
Apart from issues with finances, young filmmakers
also encounter other problems. For example, Shiri De Leon,
the director of Ang Pagdadalaga ni Lola Mayumi, an entry to
the Cinemalaya 2021, shared that she was pressured to promote
their film with stereotypical branding.6 However, she wanted to
break the stereotypes of women who create films that initiate
uncomfortable and sensitive conversations.
1 Marc Misa, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview, July 28,
2021, quoted with permission.
2 Arjanmar Rebeta, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview,
August 19,2021, quoted with permission.
3 John Paulo Comediero, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview,
March 10, 2021, quoted with permission.
4 Janille Ann Go, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview, April
28, 2021, quoted with permission.
5 Raymond Cultura, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview,
February 10, 2021, quoted with permission.
6 Shiri De Leon, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview, August
5, 2021, quoted with permission
7 Sheryl Andes, interviewed by The Film Dream, Zoom Interview, July 8,
2021, quoted with permission.

Meanwhile, Sheryl Andes, the director of Pandanggo

sa Hukay, an official entry to the Cinemalaya 2019, which
placed third in the 68th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards
for Literature in the Dulang Pampelikula category, was also
challenged by the harsh stereotypes of women. According to
her, “I was bullied because I am a female director. Ang tingin
nila sa akin ay AD lang ako. Ito ‘yong mga tao na nag-doubt
sa akin pero kailangan mo pa rin silang pakisamahan kasi
nandoon pa rin kayo sa circle kasi ang liit ng mundo.”7

Because of these and many other experiences, we

realized the need to provide support for budding filmmakers
who are committed to persevering and being part of the
continued growth and evolution of the Philippine film industry.
Thus, we aimed to foster an environment where filmmakers
could learn, create, and share. We began to conduct filmmaking
seminars and workshops as part of The Film Dream’s advocacy
of assisting starting filmmakers. We also initiated a hub for
educators and learners who want to share a creative and
safe space to pursue their talents. At the core of The Film
Dream’s advocacy is to provide the essentials of storytelling
through film, alongside the responsible use of digital tools and
resources. We also stream films via our website to showcase
the works of starting filmmakers and to provide an avenue for
sparking conversations with fellow filmmakers and enthusiasts.
In so doing, we hope in our little way to contribute to the
development of local film culture.
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