Hilda is a con artist who uses her acting skills to scam people out of money. She does this to pay for her husband, who is suffering from Parkinson's disease. Even though she gains an unpopular reputation from her activities, she perseveres anyway. When she scams one too many people, a documentary crew discovers her and delves into her life story.
Conceptually, Excuse Me Po examines the very notion of what acting is. In a way, all actors are conmen - they are trying to make you believe they are someone else. The relationship of actors and audience is a transaction, as actors give their performance to gain accolades, respect and money, while the audience receives a good show for payment sent. But in framing this transaction as a scam, the balance between performer and audience skews. If used in a negative way, this relationship ultimately breaks down.
The film also operates on a broader sense. Ruel, the filmmaker, is obviously an avatar for Excuse Me Po's director, Ronald Batallones. There's a sense that parts of the film are hewn from the director's own life story, with the film within a film mirroring the film in which it is contained. The way with which it depicts the blurring of lines between filmmaker and subject reminds me of the films of the late Francis Pasion, whose dramas often slid into the documentary form. Like acting, film too is deception, with the filmmaker trying to convince you artifice is reality. In this film, the relationship between documentarian and subject is also depicted as a transaction, and in this case, a positive one, given the film's heartwarming, even schmaltzy ending.
But this conceptual richness is dragged down a bit by a number of shortcomings. The film is awkwardly structured, taking too much time for setup, leaving little time for the story to rush through its multiple threads. It's a little too neat, a little too clean. The 'con' is exposed, revealing the artifice underneath.
(It's probably better to watch the movie first before reading this review.)
Gusto Kita With All My Hypothalamus deals with the lives of four men as they go through their lives in search of something. Their lives are wildly divergent: one is an assistant at an ukay ukay, the other, a petty thief, then, the proprietor of a used electronics shop, and finally, a college student. But they all have something in common: they are all enamored by a mysterious woman, Aileen (Iana Bernardez), whose very presence changes their lives.
But the film isn't exactly a love story, rather, it is an exploration of desire and loneliness, alluding to the title. It is not the heart that operates in this case, but something more primal: dopamine and serotonin and the powerful lure of oxytocin. Aileen is not a real woman; she is an idea, a catalyst, matter to fill the void in their hearts. She is the externalization of a masculine ideal, giving life to the whims of these poor, pathetic men. Alternatives are offered to some, but are swiftly rejected. And with credit to Bernardez, she exudes charm and sensuality as her character, fitting her personality to the needs of each man.
It's all set in the backdrop of Quiapo, lit by saturated neon lights and dusty alleyways. The filmmakers truly capture the locale's unique allure, creating an aesthetic that fits as the habitat for these men, mirroring their run down, chaotic selves.
But life goes on, and fantasies cannot last. As the last part of the movie seems to tell us, after the hormonal euphoria subsides, reality sets in, with the promise that the melancholy will return, with no assurance that it will be alleviated once more.
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