A Sesquipedality of Belly

 

I. The Life and Opinions of John Tawasil, Gentleman

I've been trying to get back into digital art recently. I first picked it up when I graduated from medical school in the late aughts. Back then, I used my laptop's trackpad to slowly copy a reference image, color it out while trying to be as close to the reference as possible, and add rudimentary effects. It was inefficient, laborious and it wasted a lot of time, but newly graduated me was burnt out from decades of continuous study and I needed something to take my mind off things.  Decades after my first attempt I'm still not very good, but the process has made me understand light and shadows, perspective and framing, which in turn helps me whenever I watch movies or take photographs. Whenever I have downtime, which these days is almost always never, I use the drawing tablet I use for work and scribble something.

an example of one of those early attempts at digital art circa 2009.

While drawing, I usually put something on in the background while I draw. Lately I've been using podcast episodes, but I ran out of those too. One particular kind of media I've been using as background noise recently is the vertical drama.

Vertical dramas (or microdramas) are an emerging form of media, one of the first borne from the new age of social media. The idea's been floating around for a while now - in the late 2010s, the format gained some popularity in China but really truly emerged into the public consciousness sometime around pandemic times. Hollywood tried to create a similar distribution model - infamously, Jeffrey Katzenberg launched the Quibi short-form streaming service that collapsed only a few months after it launched- though most of the popular microdrama distribution sites are backed by Chinese companies.

The format is relatively simple: short (1-3 minute) episodes of a story over 48-50 episodes, though very popular series have more. On these platforms, the first dozen or so episodes are free, with the rest of the story locked behind a paywall. The free tier stories are designed to end at a cliffhanger, encouraging the viewer to pay to see more of the story. These free stories often end up as ads on Facebook and Instagram, and many people (most likely including people you know) have spent dozens of minutes engrossed by one of these ads. I am one of those people.

II. Digressions, incontestably, are the sunshine

Robinsons Magnolia, or at least the building next to it, used to be an ice cream factory. That's where it got its name. Once home to the Magnolia Dairy Products Plant, the factory was transferred to another location and the land where it once stood was sold to Robinsons Corporation, who eventually redeveloped the land into a condominium and mall complex. 

In between watching films from the local Puregold Cinepanalo Film Festival, I decided to go to Robinsons Magnolia in my decade long quest to watch every full length Filipino film of the 2020s. I've missed a handful of films at this point but I'll get to those films eventually. While walking through the lower food court, I saw signage from a local food establishment that was quite obviously generated by AI. From afar the food depicted in the signage looked like food, but as I drew closer to the picture I realized that the food did not make sense. What was supposed to be beef looked unnaturally symmetrical, and the way the vegetables were perforated triggered my trypophobia.

I made my way to the mall's top floor, where the cinemas were located. On the floor below, children ran and played in a small playground made up of plastic and metal tubes and nets. A couple of adults played in a pickleball court, and for some reason none of them could sustain a rally. On the same floor as the cinemas, a mass was being held as it was a Sunday. I immediately bought a ticket to the film I was supposed to watch: Rossana Hwang's Plump Blossom.

I had more than an hour left before the screening started so I headed down to Robinsons Magnolia's second, more upscale food court and passed the time by looking at vertical dramas while snacking on some yogurt.

III. awakened, i slayed my demon husband with a lightsaber and other stories

The Thirty Six Stratagems is a 6th century Chinese text that outlines military tactics and strategy, similar to Sun Tzu's The Art of War. In its fifth chapter, there is a stratagem that says 假痴不癲 - translated in Wikipedia as "feign madness but keep your balance" - that is, lower your profile so that the enemy lowers their guard and hangs themselves with their own rope, metaphorically speaking. In other words, this is the trope of "playing the pig to eat the tiger".

It is a trope that has both fictional and historical roots: in the 5th century BC, Goujian's kingdom was crushed by a rival state. The fallen state's king became the servant of the king who crushed his kingdom. With Goujian utterly subservient, his new master eventually deemed him harmless and sent him home. Goujian then bided his time, building up an army and creating internal strife in the kingdom that defeated his. Eventually he took revenge, destroying and annexing the kingdom that defeated him and killing his enemies. The king who made Goujian his servant killed himself after an offer of surrender was rejected.

These storytelling tropes form the basis of modern vertical drama storytelling, which heavily draws from the storytelling cultures of Chinese web novels. These novels employ a satisfying narrative loop that is called "Face Slapping." The loop is simple: 1) meek, lowly looking protagonist is mocked by a haughty antagonist. 2) said protagonist does little to dispute the mockery at first, letting the antagonist hang himself through his own hubris, 3) bam - the protagonist is actually the most powerful person in the room and punishes the antagonist for their actions.

This loop is formulaic to a fault, but it is incredibly satisfying, and the vertical drama industry has found a way to industrialize storytelling at a massive scale. Literally thousands of these dramas are built on these tropes: in My Repairman Dad is the Mecha God, a hapless mechanic/mecha factory owner is unaware his dad is the legendary mecha pilot Max. In Abandoned Pawn, Unrivaled Dragon King, the discarded royal son thought to have no powers turns out to be the greatest Dragon master around. Across genres, whether it be fantasy, mecha, real life drama or even omegaverse stuff, all of these dramas follow the same formula. There are sometimes slight variations to the stories told, but as you watch more of these stories, the more you get used to their storytelling conventions to the point where you can tell how a story's going to end. And even then, you look forward to the cathartic reveal of the CEO/Mafia Boss/Dragon King/Lycan Queen. Even if the stories themselves have lost their intrinsic value as distinct narratives, it is akin to fast food, slop in a very obvious sense.

As I watched the protagonists of Rise of the Mech Queen overcome her deeply sexist mech piloting culture to reveal herself as the most powerful and skilled mech pilot on the planet, I wondered why these stories are so engrossing, and I asked myself, what value do they have despite their lack of substance?

IV.  a thousand unnoticed openings

During a mediacon for the film Plump Blossom on July 17, 2026, director Rossana Hwang talked about the use of AI in her new film. She is quoted by PEP as saying: “So I don’t see anything wrong with using A.I. because it is just a tool. The main point is still made by human. We still do the storytelling. We still do the music and everything else. The emotions are all by human, storytelling and all…"

Now halfway into Plump Blossom, I know that she is telling the truth. The only problem is everything that is human-made isn't very good either.

Right off the bat the film's music is canned, as if it were playing from a cellphone somewhere in the theater. Meanwhile, all the other sound effects — footsteps, doors opening, what have you —  are all crystal clear. It's as if the AI rendered video and the actual, human made musical tracks weren't mixed properly. This film is a musical, and all the songs sound like they were being played on a Bluetooth speaker in the front row.

did you read the above caption in your mind?

The film is also rendered in a low resolution, 720p at best, and has double image artifacts characteristic of AI generated video. High resolution AI video is time consuming and expensive to render, so the self-admittedly budget-strapped production outfit probably didn't have enough credits or time to make the movie somewhat palatable. I also wonder what video generation model they used for this film. Was it Hailuo? Kling? Wan? Seedance? Grok?

The producers also claim in the credits that they have 3D 'sculptors' and character designers. As we do not know their exact workflow for making these videos in the first place, I don't know to what extent was the AI "assistance" in this film. Did they make their own original 3D models that they fed into a machine, or did they also generate the 3D models via AI?

Films (at least, truly human made ones) possess a language that every viewer unconsciously understands. In my many hours coming across AI content through vertical dramas and films like Plump Blossom, the 'language' of these films seem slightly off, as if it were spoken by a person who only learned that language through imitation. In a normal shot-reverse shot sequence, the characters are shot at angles with their eyelines lining up, so that we can discern, through edits, that they are talking to each other. In Plump Blossom, eyelines are all over the place. Most of the time, the characters of Plump Blossom stare blankly and directly at the screen, as if it were a freakish episode of Dora the Explorer where you are asked no questions and everyone talks at you, but not to you, if that makes any sense. There is no expression in their eyes, only the blank gaze of the abyss. This is basic filmmaking, but as AI doesn't know how films work, it can only approximate based on its training data. 

The child seated in my row has gone to the comfort room. It is his second time, and it will not be his last. The film, human element or not, seems to be boring him to death.

V. To write a book is for all the world like humming a song

In 1972, the Italian singer Adriano Celentano released the song Prisencolinensinainciusol. It is an utter gibberish song that mimics the cadence and flow of American speech, and represents what English sounds like to non-English speakers.

In 2021, I wrote a book called In Between Spaces. It is not a very good book. It meanders, it follows too many plot threads, and I could not figure out how to tie up loose ends. It strains believability thanks to a ludicrous plot. This was all after I spent the better part of the year trying to revise it. I am not satisfied with the final result, and critically, I would not consider it favorably. But it was something made up of pent up feelings I wanted to put out into the world, and the lessons I learned from writing that book helped me become a better writer. It is also, top to bottom, something I made by myself.

Five years later, goblin shaped human (or human shaped goblin?) Elon Musk invited me for a free trial of his AI model Grok. Of course the man did not personally do so, but it's fun to imagine the offer coming directly from him, like a troll under a bridge asking for a tax. Curious, I decided to look into what it could do and how it operates.

Using an AI video generator is like wrangling a horse. You have to provide specific instructions in order to make it do what you want, but even then the generation model may hallucinate something by itself. An embrace between two lovers sometimes spawns additional hands that join in. Tables and chairs disappear to enable some characters to move. A person knocked back by a punch rotates in mid air, along the axis of the neck, to land prone on the ground. A man walking away from an explosion does  a little ballet twirl.

My experience with Grok made me acutely aware when a certain clip is wholly AI generated. In Plump Blossom, a container of flour falls on our protagonist Ruo Hua's head. Instead of a cute little flourish, and perhaps due to a lack of instruction, the AI improvises. The plump Ruo Hua loses 20 pounds in an instant. The flour covering her face disappears. She throws up the flour with her hands which forms a little cloud, completely ignoring the fact that she was spying on someone and trying to hide in the scene immediately before this one. The backgrounds also don't match up, and the blocking of the characters varies from scene to scene. AI speaks a filmic language that has the right words, but the syntax is utter nonsense, a reverse filmic Prisencolinensinainciusol.

Prisencolinensinainciusol In de col men seivuan Prisencolinensinainciusol ol rait Uis de seim cius nau op de seim Ol uait men in de colobos dai Trrr - ciak is e maind beghin de col Bebi stei ye push yo oh Uis de seim cius nau op de seim Ol uait men in de colobos dai Not s de seim laikiu de promisdin Iu nau in trabol lovgiai ciu gen In do camo not cius no bai for lov so Op op giast cam lau ue cam lov ai Oping tu stei laik cius go mo men Iu bicos tue men cold dobrei goris Oh sandei Ai ai smai sesler Eni els so co uil piso ai In de col men seivuan Prisencolinensinainciusol ol rait Ai ai smai senflecs Eni go for doing peso ai Prisencolinensinainciusol ol rait Uel ai sint no ai giv de sint Laik de cius nobodi oh gud taim lev feis go Uis de seim et seim cius go no ben Let de cius end kai for not de gai giast stei Ai ai smai senflecs Eni go for doing peso aiIn de col mein seivuan Prisencolinensinainciusol ol rait Lu nei si not sicidor Ah es la bebi la dai big iour Ai aismai senflecs Eni go for doing peso ai In de col mein seivuan Prisencolinensinainciusol ol rait Lu nei si not sicodor Ah es la bebi la dai big iour

With basic film knowledge (which these people should have, as they've made films before), enough direction and detailed (often exhaustive) prompting, even AI generated videos can overcome these technical limitations, but the people who "animated" this film didn't try hard enough.

I stopped Grok after that trial period. I read too many horror stories about its use: spurned exes generating videos of their former partners telling them that they love them, people generating porn of their coworkers without their consent, people randomly turning pictures of random people on twitter  - even minors - into bikini photos. That last one put Musk and his company in hot water and they aggressively placed controls on the model. They also eventually placed restrictions to how many videos can be generated in a day, effectively crippling the service for anyone who isn't paying thousands of dollars a month. That hasn't stopped a dedicated group of people from testing the limits of the model and creating Grok-generated porn to this day.

On the last day of my free trial, I considered rendering one of the scenes from my book In Between Spaces as an AI video. After trying a few sample images, I ultimately decided against it. However hard I tried, it didn't look like the image in my head.

VI. Uncle Toby

A shot in Plump Blossom shows Princess Ruo Hua eating Bao from a banquet. Her chopsticks seem to pass through the Bao as she takes a bite. The bite does not match the marks left on the food. As the shot pulls back, the other dishes in front of her distort and stutter. They are protean, as if the matter itself cannot agree on what shape it should take.

Ruo Hua's father is the Emperor of the kingdom. In his introductory scene, he is not depicted in the usual Pixar-esque style that the rest of the characters are rendered. Instead, he is rendered realistically which looks very weird considering everyone else looks like a cartoon.

There's another musical scene where the Ruo Hua and her lover General Jian are singing. They are illuminated by candlelight, but their shadows do not match their bodies' movements.

A carrier pigeon flies in the sky. When he takes off, there is no sense of speed, and it looks like he is floating in place before he flies away. The note attached to his feet oscillates between being tied to his right leg, then to his left, then the note is suddenly clutched by his right claw.

There is a sloppiness to this film that evokes the other meaning of the word slop - that is, without care, messy, and of low quality.

Uncle Toby, a character in Lawrence Sterne's 18th Century postmodern novel The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, was unceremoniously shot in the groin during the Nine Years' War. it is uncertain if the injury has rendered him impotent. With his memory fuzzy and perhaps suffering from postwar trauma, Toby spends his time and money painstakingly recreating military sieges in his yard, an endeavor that, while it does bankrupt him, fulfills him emotionally. His recreations are crafted to the last detail. It is, in his own words, a source of "infinite delight." 

VII. Doctor Slop

VIII. Endless is the search of truth

When it first came out in 2023, "the Will Smith eating spaghetti" test video was widely derided for its inaccurate and disturbing looking imagery. Just three years later, multiple AI Video generation models can pass the test with flying colors. Will Smith does indeed look like he's eating spaghetti now.

Perhaps you've read this... whatever this is and concluded that Plump Blossom is bad because the AI animation makes it look bad and soulless and the human made stuff is mediocre at best. That's true, but that's not the reason why I don't l like Plump Blossom and generative AI video generation in general. There are three reasons why and I will explain them all here.

During that same media conference, Rossana Hwang said that "A.I. is bad if you use it to cheat. If you cheated. But if it is a tool to make you attain your objective faster and more efficiently, then it is wise." For her and her team, using AI Animation is a way for people like her, without the expensive and expansive machinery of large corporations, to be able to make an animated feature. Without the resources necessary to make a CGI film normally and without the aid of AI, they would never have made the film I just watched. On the surface, this looks like a valid point. 

To be fair, there are many non-generative AI methods that help in animation and filmmaking: in-betweening, rotoscoping, color grading, and so on. But because of the vagueness of the term "AI-Assisted," without a detailed workflow, we can't tell for sure what kind of dark magic Hwang and her team performed with this film.

VIII.I. his anger, at the worst

The Heiress Who Won With Brains is a hugely popular vertical drama in the Philippines. It was so popular, its star Zhang Yinfei, who played protagonist Linda Walker, held a fanmeet here in Manila. From its humble beginnings as an alternative form of media, vertical dramas have become a multibillion dollar industry...

...is what I'm supposed to say, but the rise of AI has all but caused the live action vertical drama industry to implode in a spectacular fashion. AI processes are simply cheaper and it produces more films in the same amount of time with less resources. Nowadays, a large majority of vertical drama productions in China are made by AI. Actors and other film workers have gone on to take other jobs in order to survive. The AI pipeline is so streamlined that storylines, characters and scripts are all made by AI. It's particularly noticeable in character names: a lot of the character names of the vertical dramas I've watched are some variation of Kael, Kale, or Cael (or Elara if she's a woman). I've even seen a character named Kael Kaelen for crying out loud. It's a curious quirk of large language models that pick only from a narrow set of character names when they create a concept. The production pipeline has no need for writers, even for prompts: proprietary software nowadays is so sophisticated it writes its own prompts.

Many jobs have been lost to this surge and the industry has all but collapsed, though some production outfits are still holding on.

Are any of these AI Vertical Dramas any good? No, in fact they share many of the problems of Plump Blossom, even though their advanced generation models smooth out some of the roughness seen in Hwang's film. They make up for that by being maximalist as all hell. Big emotions, a climax every episode, cliffhangers for days, every cut expedient, every indignant line shouted out like the characters' pants were on fire. If they employ a form that blunts emotion and 'humanity', AI makes up for it by exaggeration.

VIII.II. cheer up my lads, I'll shew you land

In Capas, Tarlac, a collective of farmers and Aetas are signing a petition against Pax Silica. The complex, which includes both data centers and manufacturing facilities, threatens their homes and livelihood. Data centers need fresh water, and so do farmers; inquiries as to where the Pax Silica people will source their water has been met with vague non-answers.

There is no secret CEO or Mafia Boss that will help the people of Capas with their struggle. No faces of arrogant CEOs will be slapped. No lowly janitor will step up to be the hidden mecha king and stomp these data centers to the ground. The people of Capas, and the people of many other towns like it, fight to the rights to their land, even as we create another video where Optimus Prime and Twilight Sparkle French kiss in the Louvre.

The obvious solution to this is to **** *** **** ** ***** ********, **** ***** **** ********* ******** ** **** ** ****, ***** ***** ***** ** ***** ***** **** *** *********** **** ****** ****. There is no cosmic justice other than what we wreak with our own bloody hands.

VIII.III. ...writing, when properly managed

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, is a book about a man who cannot, for the life of him, tell his life story. There are too many digressions, too many stories of other things, before he can get back to his main objective. It takes him three chapters to even describe his birth. A character will be alluded to in one chapter, then will vanish from the plot until many chapters later. It is a wonderful, meandering, rambling mess. Its text is well known for its usage of em dashes, especially to denote broken trains of thought. A postmodern novel that existed before postmodernism, it is one of the most curious pieces of literature penned by a human mind.

All around the world, bookstores are getting orders for all sorts of books by the ton. These books—textbooks, marginalia, historical or rare first- or only- editions, books like The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman—are taken to a facility, their spines cut, their words digitized and their corpses thrown away. Training LLMs needs fresh data, and AI-generated data or slop pervades the internet now. The monster needs fresh blood.

Sometimes, while watching one of these vertical dramas, I'll catch a glimpse of something that used to be a human idea. An alien in an intergalactic arena is a dead ringer for Saru from Star Trek Discovery. The mech suits from Mecha Queen are a mishmashed hybrid of Iron Man's suit and Gypsy Danger from Pacific Rim. The hunky, muscular protagonist (who is almost always named Kael) looks like Henry Cavill.

The point for me has never been that it looks bad. Plump Blossom looks bad, yes, but it's not the reason why I dislike it. There's no way of pussyfooting around it: Generative AI lies on a foundation of theft and exploitation. It cannot create anything new - it can only steal and appropriate, approximating whatever's been fed to it. If it really is a tool, would you feel at ease knowing that using this tool directly (and negatively) impacts the lives of others? Are your dreams, your story, worth their weight in the blood of others?

IX. Aposiopesis

This is not a review of Plump Blossom. Or rather, it is me trying (and maybe failing) to review Plump Blossom, doomed to be caught up in too many digressions till the end of time. But there is one last question I will try to answer: what is my biggest fear regarding AI productions?

Food Never Comes is a Korean site where people can pretend to shop online for imaginary items, then track their "purchase" as it makes its way to them. The item is immaterial; all it sells is a feeling, an experience.

AI, in many ways, is like that. It is the perfect distillation of art as a commodity—art that is not read or analyzed, but consumed. The maximalist nature of vertical dramas is well served by AI, because it is a dopamine delivery system that injects catharsis straight into your brain. The higher the stakes, the more arrogant the antagonist, the more oblivious anyone else is to the secret CEO's identity, the greater the payoff, the more satisfying the conclusion.

And, quite deviously, the use of AI also commoditizes the act of creation itself. You can pretend, through credits and subscriptions and investments in RAM and hardware, that you have created something, even if what lies before you was made by a theft machine powered by the blood of others.

We are slowly losing the ability to read films and books and media. All we see are archetypes and tropes and make value judgements on that. In the future, will 'art' no longer exist in the form we have now? In the future, will it all be distilled into commoditized emotions?

The Ugly Sister is the Chaos Queen is a tale about Aurora, an ostensibly ugly member of a noble family. She is not actually ugly as the AI has trouble rendering ugliness, but every character in this story definitely thinks she is. She eventually gains the ability to tap into her once-sealed chaos powers and regains the respect of the kingdom that shunned her. But before she does so, she is infested with abyssal energy and turned into an entity that threatens to destroy the entire kingdom. Aurora remembers many small little moments of kindness that manages to pull her back from the brink, saving her soul from corruption.

It was then when I felt it: a little tinge of emotion. Even knowing its many deficiencies in form, this work of bastardized 'art' made me feel something. An artificial production like this does not need to be perfect in order to evoke emotion; it only needs to be good enough. If it becomes indistinguishable from the real thing, when the theft becomes so convincing that it fools the human mind, what then?

How exactly do you fight something like this? I don't know. Many local filmmakers are beginning to accept AI. People have already started talks advocating for its existence. This last part is an aposiopesis, a sentence deliberately left unfinished. What we do from now on may well decide the future of all artistic works.

In the meantime, all I have is my trusty old tablet and my art. Here's something I drew back in 2021, 12 years after I first tried out digital art, when I still had time to draw. It's still pretty crude, but I'd like to believe I've improved somehow.

Puregold Cinepanalo 2026: reviews of all seven feature films

 

Right off the bat the thing that sticks out the most from Wantawsan is the way it depicts something that most Filipinos from low income communities experience - the act of taking debt and giving and repaying loans. As soon as Chito (Joross Gamboa) gains some money, he loses that money to a number of debts that he holds, this time not entirely out of his own volition. The problem this time is that money, received as a handout from the local mayor, is fake.

The debt trap consumes the life of not only Chito, but every other person in the movie: everyone owes everyone else something, because the money that they earn is not enough for them to live, and say less about simple luxuries like a birthday party. In order to pay off their existing debts, they take on more debts to cover that deficit, and it becomes an inescapable, inevitable cycle. With such a milieu, every man starts to look out for himself. When it becomes uncertain where your next payout's gonna be, it's reasonable to hold on, no matter what, to the money you do have.

And ayuda systems like the one perpetrated by the omnipresent mayor directly feed onto this ecosystem of eternal debt, creating and fostering a relationship of dependence. Throughout the film the characters of Wantawsan gaslight themselves into thinking the mayor is still working in their best interests. And when Chito gets the mental wherewithal to realize he's being scammed, he is unable to gain solidarity with anyone else but himself.

Joross Gamboa gives a committed performance here, though at times his bronzer makes him stick out like a sore thumb compared to his co-actors. It's weird because he doesn't have to be that dark skinned, there are definitely lighter skinned day workers and the tan one gets from perpetual day work doesn't look like this.

Wantawsan's depiction of the debt ecosystem then turns into a moral question for those still in debt, rather than turning it against the people who perpetuate that system in the first place. At multiple times in the film Chito is tempted to spend his remaining (fake) 1000 peso bill and change it for real money, even if it means taking advantage of someone else. At one point, he asks questions to an ice cream seller about relatives and family, just to make sure that the person he's negatively affecting will have the least collateral damage possible. Thankfully his son (Zion Cruz, no the other one) serves as his moral compass. Our children do truly change us.

It's not a stretch to say the Filipino farmer is the backbone of the country. The products of their labor helps feed us and sustains our people. It is the most profound irony that we as a society do not see them in that way. The Filipino farmer has been subjected to all sorts of indignities: forced to farm in lands that aren't theirs,  exploited and killed for standing up for their rights, relegated to the back of societal consciousness.

In Law Fajardo's Beast, the Filipino farmer is just as much a beast of burden as their carabao partners. Omeng (John Arcilla) tells fanciful tales to a young child he treats as his own. He learns that the person who owns the land is selling it to have it redeveloped, which means many decades of harvest have come to an end. He is sad about the news but as he goes to sleep he notices that his steadfast carabao Bob (voiced by Lou Veloso) is suddenly able to talk and sing. The two then decide to head for Manila to search for Omeng's long lost niece, who lives in the city. There's just one thing: Omeng is only traveling using Bob, and his home in Pulilan is at least 40 kilometers away.

What follows is a series of short stories-within-a-story as Omeng takes on a number of passengers as he embarks on his journey. Here the film takes on a surreal, magical realism-tinged tone, and while Arcilla gives a good performance, the film itself lacks the whimsy it needs to work. It's also home to an extended, interminable sequence with a bunch of vloggers that had me plugging my ears. And although the film is a road movie, it is paced very slowly, with large stretches of the film having nothing interesting going on.

It soon becomes evident to the attentive viewer that the people helping Omeng on his journey are familiar faces, and there's more to the trip than meets the eye, and the film's twist ending reframes the proceedings as an imagining of a better future for people like Omeng, a way for storytellers to give them the life they deserve.

However, all of that is held back by various aspects of the production. Testimonies from some crewmembers who worked on the film relate the film's usage of AI to animate Bob talking. It is ironic that a film made as a tribute to farmers uses tools that actively harm them and causes the same damage that the film decries. It's also a shame since the film would have worked just fine (and probably would have saved budget too) if they just shot it the way they did Fulgoso from Marimar or any number of talking animal movies and media over the past several decades.

In some editions of the 11th century novel The Tale of Genji, there is a chapter called Kumogakure. The word literally means to "hide behind a cloud" but in this particular context it is used to denote the disappearance of a person. In the case of the novel, it consists of a title and a blank page - as it denotes the death of its central character, Genji. Prior to that chapter, Genji's final appearance in the novel has him contemplating his eventful life so far, He laments the absence of his late wife Murasaki no Ue, with whom, among his many wives and paramours, he has formed his closest emotional attachment. At one point he wakes up and sees an empty spot next to his bed. Overcome with loneliness, he remarks:

I long to melt like snow, to disappear

from this world of sadness... but snow still falls

and I still live on against my wishes

The compulsion to leave a world that has overtaken you, where death seems like the easy way out, is an understandable one - and it lies at the center of BC Amparado's Mono no Aware. But even from the very start of the film, there are signs of resistance against simply fading away. Most notably it is seen in the stains left by the kodokushi, elderly or isolated people who die a lonely death. These stains are persistent, seeping through the tatami mats and into the floor below. Without a community to support them, whether it be family or friends, these people often go unnoticed for days before they are discovered, and special cleaners are contracted to clean the place up. 

Ichi (a committed JK Labajo) is one of these cleaners. He's in Japan, trying to eke out a living and raise a family. Despite the blood and gore he encounters on a daily basis, he perseveres for the sake of his wife and newborn baby. His baby has a bunch of complications, and Ichi pours all of his resources into keeping the child alive. On the other hand, he meets George (Perry Dizon), a Filipino retiree who has spent his life alone after the death of his Japanese wife. With his hand mangled and with no way to work or to leave meaningfully, he wishes for death, and George asks Ichi if he can help him do so, pouring all of his remaining resources into his death wish.

For a film steeped in death, Mono no Aware is life-affirming and gentle, punctuated by a sparse, yet effective soundtrack and visuals that help one take step back, take a breath, and consider these characters' struggles. It treats both life and death as the  natural rhythms of our existence. Through its various characters, it explores the reactions to those rhythms, embodying the concept of aware (哀れ). For example, at one point, social worker Mori Iwai (Momoko Kobayashi) relates the story of why she decided to engage in laborious, thankless social work - because of the traumatic experience of her grandfather dying. Though the word is rendered with 哀, the kanji for sorrow, it does not necessarily mean that aware is associated only with tragedy or sadness. The ending of the film is evidence that our being moved by the utter transience of life - all its regrets, its tragedies, its resolutions unanswered - can lead into something cathartic and joyful, especially if you have someone walking alongside you.

It is perhaps my biggest mistake in this film festival to watch Mikko Baldoza's Stuck on You immediately after Mono no Aware, as they exist in completely different frames of mind: while the latter is solemn and serious, the former is a wacky, unhinged comedy that wouldn't be unusual in the filmography of someone like Wenn Deramas (this is a compliment.)

Describing the film feels like describing a tesseract, but I'll try. Sheryl (a completely game Xyriel Manabat) works at a nail salon. On her way to work, she gets mistaken for a fellow coworker and is put in the service of Max (River Joseph), a rich dude who just wants his ingrown nail removed. Unfortunately for playboy Max, he's got a target on his back: a group of disgruntled men have put a hit on the hunky love interest, and Sheryl has mistakenly taken the hitman's place. Many, many shenanigans ensue.

It's futile to nitpick any inconsistencies in the story, as it operates on comedy rules. If (operatively speaking) this is anything like Baldoza's genre exploration of the sexy/horror genre in 2025's Haplos sa Hangin, this would be a homage to brainrot, mainstream comedy films, the antithesis of films like the one I just watched before this.

I don't think it all gels together in the end, but the film is still supremely entertaining thanks to Manabat's performance, and to be fair to River Joseph, he takes one for the team as the relatively sane straight man to Manabat's funny man.

The days following my mother's death were a blur, and it didn't help that the death was sudden and unexpected. All I remember from those days were a sense of trying to regain normalcy in a state where normalcy was the furthest thing from the status quo. It all eventually settled on the fact that it's never going to be the same as before, and whatever form our family's lives will take from now on, it will be one without my mother actively in it.

I felt the same feeling with Thop Nazareno's Apol of My Ai, where the titular Apol (Zion Cruz, yes this one) deals with the death of his mom and the belated return of his OFW dad Poli (Zanjoe Marudo). He's understandably distant from his dad, and the two struggle to connect with each other. Thanks to his normal homeroom teacher going on maternity leave, Apol comes across and is smitten with the new substitute teacher Ai (Rochelle Pangilinan), eventually deciding to join the school chorale in order to impress his new crush.

Nazareno is no stranger to coming of age stories that tackle our complicated relationships with family and society, and this one is no exception. In particular, his films have its characters go though this coming of age scarred and beaten but persevering. It also hasn't gone unnoticed that all of his characters, from Kiko Boksingero to Edward to this one, deal with the repercussions of their fathers' actions. In this case, however, Poli's decisions regarding his son are not borne out of indifference or hatred, but out of love and economic necessity. It is a sad reality for overseas workers everywhere, raising children that will not know them.

And that's what lies at the emotional heart of Apol of My Ai - a boy, masterfully rendered by Cruz's best-of-festival performance, who desperately desires to love and be loved in return by the only parent he has left, forced into a pseudo-adulthood from that feeling of wanting normalcy in an abnormal situation. It's quite fitting that the film uses kundiman as a sort of motif, as they are love songs that can also sometimes be used in a context other than romantic. I'm reminded of Saan Ka Man Naroroon, composed by Restie Umali with lyrics by Levi Celerio, whose lyrics of longing and sadness makes sense in this context.

Granted, the proceedings can sometimes pile on the cheese, at times orders of magnitude higher compared to the relatively grounded Kiko or the very serious Edward, with some kiddie scenes reaching cloying levels, while Apol's sudden crashout in the last act of the film can strike as more than a little cringe. In the film's defense, however, cringe is very much a part of a preteen boy's life, so I'm willing to give it a little slack. I would know, I've been one of those kids.

Part sci-fi, part fantasy, part horror, Multwoh's mishmash of genres feels very much like the vertical dramas its central character, Marcel (Sassa Gurl) creates. Her Philippines is one where the water has dried up, and where the media reports spiritual possessions of queer people doing all sorts of weird things. She has a huge crush on Miguel (Joao Constancia) and constantly thinks up scenarios where they end up together. When Marcel is unceremoniously killed under mysterious circumstances, she gets help from a bunch of (very flamboyant) spirits in order to haunt Miguel, sort out her remaining emotional baggage, and find out the manner of her untimely demise.

The first half of Multwoh has Marcel exploring her relationship with Miguel, establishing the milieu of the world. Like many of director Rodina Singh's other films, it is a world where its central characters' queerness is a given, and is not treated as the punchline to a joke. The people in Marcel's life accept her as she is. I would also say that her attraction to Miguel is judged only because she's indecisive, but the film has a tendency to blend fiction and reality so much that it's not easy to tell which is which. 

Still, the film is brimming with campy, outrageous chaos (including some surprising cameos!) that ends in a wonderful, poignant sequence. The only problem here is the obvious and egregious use of AI that isn't completely diegetic nor justifiable. Its existence, pardon the pun, haunts the film from beginning to end.

Like many of Carl Papa's other films, Patay Gutom explores themes of memory (especially forgetting), and repressed emotions (especially desire). But unlike his other films, and maybe thanks to directing partner and star of the film Ian Pangilinan, it is much lighter than those films. In fact, other than maybe Manang Biring (2015) this is Carl Papa's lightest work, which is crazy considering this is a film about ghosts wanting to be remembered.

The film revolves around Art (Khalil Ramos), who has haunted the cemetery in which he is buried for decades at this point. He watches fellow spirits visited by bereaved loved ones, eventually leaving the living world behind thanks to their presence and the food offerings their loved ones feed them, called atang. Art hasn't had anyone visit him since his death... until one day, he receives something: a piece of Burger Machine sansrival. His elation is soon dashed when Tristan (Pangilinan), the delivery boy who brought the sansrival, steals and eats it himself. This has the unfortunate (?) side effect that Tristan can now see and interact with Art, and other, much different 'side effects' ensue as well.

Reminiscent of films like Mike Waters' 2005 film Just Like Heaven, albeit with a unique and interesting quirk, Patay Gutom may not be as deep or impactful as Carl Papa's other films, but it brings with it a bittersweet tenderness to it, thanks to its earnest and endearing characters.  Buoyed by its two leads (and some pretty great chemistry between the two), Patay Gutom has a romance that looks ridiculous on paper, but one that ultimately works for me - though it must be said that the twist during the third act will make the nature of Art and Tristan's relationship a bit iffy.

As much as it is a film about remembering, Patay Gutom is also a film about letting go.  It centers on the things we leave unsaid, and the regret borne from those unspoken words, reminding us that while we still exist, whether in life or in the afterlife, it's better to let those feelings known rather than keep them bottled up inside.

Cinemalaya 2026: Kaka sa Yawan, Tirik, Mag-iina

 

In terms of basic structure, Alpha Habon's Kaka sa Yawan reminds me of Kevin Piamonte's 2025 debut feature Candé, in which a man returns to his old hometown to confront traumas from his childhood. Habon expands on that idea, tying in a personal story of connection with concepts of lowlanders' relationships with people from tribal communities.

The film takes place in two timelines. In the present, Niko (Beaver Magtalas) returns to Mindoro after a long time away. He meets people from his past, but he's there for one specific purpose. In the past, a younger Niko (Bryce Nicolo Mercader) comes to Mindoro in order to meet with his estranged mother Mely (Nikki Valdez). Unaccustomed to his new living situation, he yearns to leave but then meets Ayan (Dennis Dato), a member of the Tadyawan-Mangyan peoples living in the area. The two form a very close friendship.

Director Alpha Habon leaves a lot of ambiguity in depicting its two protagonists' relationship, and leaves it up to the viewer if Niko and Ayan's relationship crosses from mere brotherhood into something else. In any case, the chemistry between the two leads is tangible, and it helped the film gain a decent following during its Cinemalaya run.

In one scene with the older Niko and his childhood friend Precious (Queenzy Mercado), the latter asks him why he had to return, implying that  in having returned to his original home in the capital, he did not need to come back. Niko's response, embodied in the second half of the film, is that however far he may be from Mindoro, the bonds he forged there will stay with him forever, and ultimately, when he is ready, he will come back. It sits in stark contrast with fellow Cinemalaya batchmate Hand of God, where a tragic setback leads to the protagonist abandoning the place entirely.

And there are many things that still need to be addressed that the film shines a spotlight on: the lack of proper medical facilities in rural areas, education opportunities for tribal peoples, the lingering embers of discrimination that prevent those same indigenous men and women from uplifting their own communities. My favorite moment in the film by far is when it rewires that discriminatory language into something positive. People ask Ayan if he has a tail (long used as a means to dehumanize and discriminate against his people) and Niko answers yes - he is Ayan's tail, using the other meaning of the word (i.e. one who follows). And in more ways than one, Niko embodies that reclaimed meaning.

In the world of Tirik, the taxi cab is a confessional, its confessor weighed down by the burden of the sins he witnesses, its penitent weighed down by the burden of the sins he commits. It is ruminative, often meandering to its own detriment, and its ending is clumsy. But there's something about it that still sticks with me days after I've seen it.

Based on a true story, Tirik takes us on a roadtrip to Dasmarinas infused with a loose, tito rock sensibility. Father Bert (Rocco Nacino) is a parish priest who, in the age of Duterte's drug war, is considered an activist. When he learns that one of his former parishioners, a student leader and journalist, has been extrajudicially killed, Bert sets off to Cavite to hold a mass. A taxi driver and personal friend, Santos (Floyd Tena), volunteers to take him there for free.

The two converse and get into various situations as they head to the wake, and it's clear that both friends have very differing views on sin and accountability. Bert's approach towards these situations is constant, uncompromising compassion: when confronted with a wounded dog, Bert does everything he can to treat the animal, while Santos wants to euthanize it instead. This ends up backfiring (and the poor dog likely gets a grim fate either way) but despite the added hassle and delay, Bert always tries to do the right thing, much to Santos' exasperation.

Bert's radical kindness seems to rub off on Santos, who is obviously hiding something from his friend. Much of the good parts of Tirik consist of Floyd Tena's understated but effective performance as Santos, as he slowly, but surely comes to terms with his own sins. In the most crucial scene of the film, he asks if those bathed in sin are still worthy of God's grace. Bert's response, embodied in the life he lives, is affirmative - his very existence serves those in the margins, for he, like the one whose teachings he follows, "comes to seek and save the lost."

Granted, these themes are embedded in a film that feels like it is lost in its own ruminations. It is deliberately paced and awkwardly structured. That crucial conversation in the last paragraph? It comes at the end of a dinner where Bert and Santos explicitly prepare to leave immediately. They don't, opting instead to have this talk. And the ending of the film feels metaphorical rather than something existing in the film's reality, because Father Bert's gonna need to have a few extra clothes for that mass.

In my honest opinion, it is appropriate to describe the cinematic adaptation of Guelan Varela-Luarca's play Corridors as 'batshit insane'. In fact, there are some aspects of Mag-iina that tone down things from its source material - the characters going into spasms with every transition would've been an interesting choice, for example. But there is method to this madness, and it serves as a companion piece to fellow Cinemalaya batchmate A.ni.mal in their exploration of power and how it is perceived and perpetuated.

Upon reading the director's statement, Mag-iina's approach to horror differs from other works that directly depict evil and malevolence as its driving force. Here, Luarca and director Giancarlo Abrahan identify love, albeit a very twisted form of it, as the source of these corruptions. They identify Filipinos as the most social of social creatures; they identify our desire for power as intertwined with the basic social unit of the family, and what else binds a family together as strongly as love? Instead of a black hole from which nothing can escape, the family at the center of Mag-iina is its opposite: an all-shining star whose eternal, unfading light casts no shadows. The film delights in subverting traditionally good imagery and twisting it to a dark version of itself: the sanctum sanctorum, the holiest of holies, serving as the studio where dark arts are made, the image of a life giving bosom gushing blood, the unholy trinity of parent, child, and unholy ghost together in an endless, incestuous embrace. This is how dynasties are created.

And it does so in a wickedly jocose, almost tongue-in-cheek manner. It delights in its own mayhem, and the performances of its main cast certainly adds to that. Of note is Lucas Andalio, who manages to deliver an exceptional performance. Props also have to be given to the film's exceptional technical aspects, particularly its production design, which gives the house a character of its own, making its four walls feel ominous and oppressive.

With all that said, the ending of Mag-iina (directly taken from the play) feels like a rhetorical question, or at best, a promise for something that may not come for a long time. It is not intended to give you answers, only that the answer exists, out there, in a place where even the all-encompassing light of love cannot reach.

Cinemalaya 2026: Ganggang, Status: Rejected, A.Ni.Mal

 

Children's stories have been a staple of Cinemalaya since its very first edition. They have been used as a unique lens from which to tell stories about society as a whole. In JL Burgos' Ganggang, we see firsthand the effects of state violence and militarization in a small rural community through the eyes of three children.

These three children are Mel (Raine Dela Cruz), Ilay (Kenneth Vincent Mendoza) and Tenten (Don Rishmond Cerbito). Mel, the son of an army sergeant, moves into the community as part of a greater operation from the military to 'surveil' the town for insurgents. He befriends his two classmates, who have their own history with state violence in their town: Ilay is the son of two desaparecidos, while Tenten is the son of a farmer who soon becomes missing as the military ramps up their operations.

This is JL Burgos' first fiction film after a career working in documentaries, including 2024's Alipato at Muog. Unfortunately, the transition from docus to fiction is a little rough: the film is unsubtle, sometimes peppered with dialogue that repeats what we're already seeing. Sometimes the supporting cast functions more as archetypes rather than people, and the film doesn't quite know when to end, and when it does, it fizzles out.

That said, the film still manages to create something genuinely affecting, especially in the multiple tragedies (most of them sadly based on real life) that happen over the course of the film. Burgos litters the film with many small easter eggs and references to his own life as an activist and the brother of a desaparecido. Despite its roughness, Ganggang is an important film, and in the future should and will likely be remembered as one.

There comes a point in one's life when it feels like everyone's passed you by. When people and relationships have left you behind, it's easy to think that you're no longer deserving of love. The mere notion of being desired, then, feels exhilarating, addictive.

Biring (Ruby Ruiz) is an elderly grandmother whose wish is to join her son Clark in the USA. Clark is an illegal immigrant, a status made even more precarious thanks to the state of the country and its current views on immigration. Biring has been rejected numerous times, and her dogged insistence puts her at odds with her daughter (Alessandra de Rossi), who is doing everything she can to hold the household together. When an American man follows Biring on Facebook looking for romance, she's understandably hooked.

On grander scales, Status: Rejected juxtaposes a woman's search for love, acceptance and validation with our nation's relationship with our former colonizers. We keep coming back to them like we're a person seeking the love of an abusive partner, even though the promises of love and a better life that we associate with them are not guaranteed, and are delusions at worst. Biring's dogmatic reverence of that idea of a better life abroad destroys her family and splits it apart. Her son clings on desperately for work despite the threat of deportation, and her daughter has her own struggles at home because Biring's impositions on the family are unsustainable.

On the other hand, Status: Rejected is a deeply personal family story, reflected in its tight (almost claustrophobic), intimate frames. It is a story of generations, and how the desire to avoid the mistakes of the previous generation sometimes makes us commit the same mistakes anyway. Curiously, the film follows gendered lines, so it is also a story about women, and how they are often left behind or exploited even though love and acceptance is all they want. In the end, the greatest form of love the women of Status: Rejected will ever need will not come from a stranger (or another country), but from each other.

The 2010 edition of Cinemalaya saw the release of Dennis Marasigan's Vox Populi, a film about a rookie politician running for mayor and learning the ins and outs (as well as the dark side) of politics. It assumes that these systems corrupt a person when they come in, irrevocably tainting them.

On the other hand, Dustin Celestino's latest work, A.ni.mal, has its characters already tainted from the start, as if the corruption is already part of their DNA. It comes naturally to them, and for them, the right to rule is a birthright, something ordained by God. At one point, Grace Reyes (Bituin Escalante) goes on a tirade stating that because of her service to the nation, she deserves the overseas trips, she deserves the designer bags, she deserves it all. Quite tellingly Celestino does not show what "service" she's done for the community, perhaps because there isn't any. These are people at their vilest, most contemptible selves.

On the other hand, these politicians stay in power partially thanks to people who work within the system for their own self interest. For John (Anthony Falcon) a worker at an animal shelter sponsored by the Mayor and his family, he does not act to get accountability from these politicians because that would likely mean the shelter would shut down, he would be out of a job, and many animals would die. His decision to do that is a survival mechanism. It is a dark and twisted form of pakikisama that is wielded to the benefit of those in power and to the detriment of everyone else.

That said, A.ni.mal is a comedy, Celestino's funniest film yet. It builds on the absolutely depraved things people can do, and the things the rest of us do to turn a blind eye. As always, Celestino's style is discoursive and rhetorical: he provides the milieu and asks questions, but doesn't spoonfeed any answers to you either. It is a film carried by its cast, and its cast delivers: of note is Bituin Escalante, who steals every scene she's in.

If A.ni.mal is the joke, then it is a joke told at our expense. Because despite every ridiculous thing that goes on in the movie, the people at the top win, and we lose. It is only when we change our way of looking at things can we, maybe tip the scales and turn the tables with our own hands.

Cinemalaya 2026: Tayo Lang ang Nakakaalam, 2 Valid IDs, Hand of God

 NOTE: SPOILERS MAY BE PRESENT IN THE REVIEWS BELOW.

The one thing that stuck the most while watching David Corpuz's Tayo Lang ang Nakakaalam is in its usage of barriers: curtains, doors, walls and mirrors that separate its characters in both a physical and thematic sense. It's a clever way for the filmmakers to visually depict its central theme: the secrets we keep from each other and ourselves. It's a remarkable feat from DP Adam Dumaguin (in his first full length credit) and Production Designer David Esguerra (Huling Palabas).

At one point, curtains are used like that of a confessional, that is, to keep secrets within its bounds: during a moment alone, Bong (Miguel Odron) calls his coworker and 'friend' Neil (Martin Del Rosario, in a career-best performance) to join him in his hospital bed after meeting relatives. The relatives don't know any better and accept the cover story that Neil is just a friend, but in that small, intimate moment together we are shown that Bong and Neil are lovers. During another moment, Neil shuts the curtain on a nosy bantay from a nearby bed curious about Bong's condition.

Bong's parents, Benjie (Epy Quizon) and Gloria (Yayo Aguila) are accepting of Bong and Neil's relationship, but keep up with the facade with family members to avoid any unpleasantness. However, Bong and Neil aren't completely transparent with the couple, and when the truth of Bong's illness is revealed, conflict arises that directly touches upon the classic ethical question of disclosure. And at multiple points in the film, when in the company of someone who is otherwise worthy of trust, secrets are kept all the same. One may ask, why?

To answer that question, it must be said that the blame falls neither on Neil or Bong, but on a society that stigmatizes everything about them. Secrecy is inextricably bound to the life of an LGBTQ person: from the act of coming out, to hiding in the closet, to having a "beard" in order to conceal a same-sex relationship, everything has to be done on the low, behind walls both physical and emotional. To keep secrets is thus a means of protection, a survival mechanism against a society built around denying them the chance to live a normal life.

And thus. the film tells us, to be true to one's self and others is a means of protest, a profoundly powerful form of self-love, but love whose attainment that can be a lifelong challenge.

A bureaucracy per se is not a bad thing; a well functioning, efficient bureaucracy helps societies navigate complex systems. On the other hand, there always runs the risk of overcomplicating things to the point where systems meant to serve the people now inconvenience and even hinder them. In order to bypass these bloated, cumbersome, over-bureaucratized systems, the ruling class creates hierarchies whose levels operate on different rules, and it is sometimes in their interest to keep this system for their own benefit.

Ma-an Asuncion Dagnalan's 2 Valid IDs is a film about queues. Some have described this as a film about our healthcare system, but this is only partially true - our healthcare system involves a lot of paperwork, so it is able to demonstrate our tendency to overcomplicate our own systems. Our central character is Sylvia (Marietta Subong), a dedicated, loving wife taking care of her husband Ramon (Joey Marquez). Ramon is confined in the hospital for COPD, and he needs an operation called a bullectomy. Note from a doctor here - if you have COPD and you need a bullectomy, you're in pretty bad shape. As Ramon is confined in the charity ward, he's in a crowded queue of his own, waiting for his turn to get schedule for surgery. There is a solution: move to a semi-private room, and his queue priority is upgraded. That takes money, and a rich relative has the money to make that happen, but Sylvia can't access the money because she doesn't have a valid ID.

As she navigates a confusing, complicated and frustrating system ostensibly made to protect its citizens, Sylvia patiently lines up again and again, taking up one queue after another in what seems like an endless line of lines. But it soon becomes evident that in this society, there are two lines: one line where the system works as the ruling class intended, and one line for everyone else, including Sylvia. In principle the systems that Sylvia navigates mean well, as the legislation behind these rules are meant to protect from fraud and abuse. But if a system does not take into account the sheer volume of people lining up, and if it is not implemented with compassion for those same people in line, the emergence of alternative systems in order to bypass them (fixers and the like) is inevitable. In the Philippines, it is more or less part of our culture. In the hospital setting, the people in Ramon's charity ward get by through their own ways and means: sharing medications, seeking advice from sympathetic healthcare workers to ease their financial burden, fostering a sense of community in the ward. It's a phenomenon that I've observed in some capacity myself in the course of my training and practice.

This idea of queuing also ties into how the time demanded of people from different social classes is stratified in the same way. Time is valuable to everyone; it is a precious commodity. In a fair system, this time should be equally partitioned, but it is not.

2 Valid IDs can get rather didactic when trying to make its point, lampshading its many points through redundant dialogue. It works best when it shows individual character moments, given its talented cast: Subong (a.k.a. Pokwang) is excellent as always, while Zaijian Jaranilla delivers one of his best performances. Zaijian's role, the bantay and grandson of Ramon's charity ward bedmate, offers a glimpse of the compassion and solidarity we all foster while waiting in these endless lines. It is a temporary solution, for sure, as the real change is structural and culture-wide. The film is not quite equipped to address any solutions to the problem it posits, as it's firmly a part of what I call a 'cinema of indignation'. In any case, if it makes you think the next time you fall in line somewhere, it will have done its job.

The director's statement from the Cinemalaya film Hand of God says that this film is based on a true story. Said anecdote basically spoils a crucial part of the film, so it's best not to read it. I have no problem with this particular part of the film; my problems lie with everything else.

The film takes place in a secluded town in Basilan. A group of soldiers arrive at the town in order to monitor the town's alleged ties to insurgent groups. Reyes (Ruru Madrid), an army lieutenant,  is a fan of football and installs a football post in hthe middle of the town to create a rapport with the kids there. He recognizes the talent in some of the town kids and hatches an audacious plan to have them compete in Manila.

Hand of God does not work for me at a fundamental level. It constructs a fantasy world based on its real life source, one that feels sanitized for festival  audiences. From the very start, some of its aspects bothered me. Despite being set in Basilan, its characters do not speak Yakan or Tausug; most of the dialogue is in Tagalog. Casting non-Mindanaoan actors in Mindanaoan roles is a personal pet peeve, and even more so when they don't speak the language. To be fair, the film has a consultant (hopefully for the cultural aspects of hte film), but the depiction of the local culture of the community living in Basilan is limited, and its evident through which lens this film's being seen in. But that isn't even the most egregious part of this film.

From films like Bula sa Langit (2022) that talked about PTSD to outright propaganda pieces like 2019's Children of the River, Cinemalaya has had a complicated relationship with the military in its stories. Arguably, the film could be read as the latter, but the thing is it isn't good at being propaganda, either. Lt. Reyes tries to uplift the children's situation but he does not uplift the community, nor does he deal with the causes behind the insurgency in the first place. When he fails in uplifting the children, he sulks, gets depressed, and leaves the community, never to come back again. Reyes wants to atone for past sins,  but he does not abandon the very system that helped oppress these people and once things don't go his way, he leaves the community! Note that he only leaves the military after the tragic event happens, and not before - a tragic event that wouldn't have happened had he considered the children's situation and relative safety. This is a film where people from underserved, marginalized regions are (inadvertently or not) depicted as props in order for an outside to gain some character development.

As a sports movie, the film isn't very successful either. There are scenes of the kids participating in a tournament, but only in a montage. Because the depiction is lacking, I found it hard to believe these kids could beat well fed, well-prepared teams.

No doubt, the film's cloying sentimentality and blatant emotional manipulation will fool audience members who don't know any better or who are easily fooled by surface level, shallow themes whose logic falls apart if one looks close enough. But not me.

The Four Backrooms and Me

 

I've been writing reviews for my 2025 book for the past few weeks. The proceedings have been pretty slow as of late, owing to a number of personal events including the death of my mother, but things are still proceeding, albeit slowly. In the meantime, I've been thinking of what to do with my blog now that I've primarily moved my writing offline. Heck, I'm not even writing on letterboxd that much anymore. It's part of an effort to ride into the sunset and retire by 2030. At least that was my original intent. Nowadays I've been thinking of writing some semi-regular, unedited ramblings on this page instead - mostly about cinema, but sometimes other things. Here is my first attempt.

One of those 2025 reviews is for the feature film The Four Bad Boys and Me. The film, apparently an adaptation of a Wattpad novel, hews from a familiar template that I've been talking about in this blog for years. The origin point is Yoko Kamio's 1992 Hana Yori Dango, whose multiple iterations have popularized and propagated certain storytelling tropes worldwide. In the Philippines, these tropes immediately hit it off, as we are fixated (one could say even obsessed) with these ideas: that of the affluent "bad" boy with a heart of gold falling in love with the working-class, plucky girl. These storytelling conventions tap into a rich history within Philippine film and literature, that most likely reaches back into the origins of storytelling itself.

Art can be iterative, variations on a common theme told endlessly. Places like Wattpad or AO3 or fanfiction.net are hubs where people iterate upon art, copying it and adding their own spin to established stories and characters. That's how stories evolve and propagate. But there's a difference between, say, a piece of oral history that survives though the generations, and a piece of generated text from an artificial 'intelligence'.

That's one of the things that popped in my head when I watched Kane Parsons' Backrooms, his take on the internet creepypasta that started as a 4chan post. That, too, is a form of iterative media: after the original post became popular, various people started their own wiki and created lore around the Backrooms. There are floors and levels and different kinds of rooms and different entities, some even tying it to other, larger (and sometimes completely divergent) fictional universes. They all draw from ancient labyrinth myths that have existed as long as man has told stories.

Parsons has a relatively simple premise for the backrooms in his interpretation, and to understand it, it helps to be familiar not only with his Backrooms web series, but also another horror web series that he's uploaded to his Youtube channel: The Oldest View. The Oldest View shares elements with his Backrooms series but it plays on ideas of memory much more concretely (is that a pun? than its liminal sibling.

Set in a large, uncanny recreation of a long-demolished mall, The Oldest View tells the story of a Youtuber who comes upon a curious passageway leading to this unnatural space. During his exploration of this space, he comes across an entity taking the form of an abandoned art piece that actually existed in the real life counterpart of the mall. At first, the viewer's impulse is that the entity is somehow malevolent, but an alternative explanation for this entity is that it merely wants to be remembered. Parsons intersperses his videos with real life footage of the mall's demolition and scenes of the mall in its heyday. The Oldest View is a film about memory as much as it is about a creepy interdimensional space, and that holds true for his Backrooms film as well.

Backrooms is a film about an unhealthy fixation with the past. I call it nostalgia, but it's not an entirely accurate term, and to be fair there are kinds of nostalgia that are healthy. In this case, I'm talking about an unhealthy, maladaptive nostalgia that prevents people from moving on. The one most guilty of this is Clark (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a failed architect who is relegated to selling furniture in a run down shop. He blames his troubles on everyone but himself, and while he consults Mary (Renate Reinsve,) a therapist, about his troubles, she's not equipped to handle his dysfunctions (the film perhaps presenting a critique of the pop psychology establishment of that time period.) At the same time, thanks to flashbacks, we see that Mary grew up with a mentally ill parent, and she's been traumatized just as much as Clark has been, if not more.

In that sense, the Backrooms can also be read as a film about how people respond to trauma, and how they either retreat into the safety of a "nostalgic" past, or move forward into an uncertain future. It's telling how Mary symbolically performs the latter using a totem of her own past, breaking it in the process. It's uncertain as to what will happen to her from now on, but the future holds no promises. It is not an assurance of relief.

But even more interesting to me is how this reading and the one previous about memory can be extended to cultural memory. Parsons sets his version of the Backrooms (both the series and the movie) in the nineties, hovering around the events of the Cold War and Operation Desert Storm, whose events would eventually lead into the eventual War on Terror. The safety of malignant nostalgia creates complacency, even hubris, the kind that declares a Fukuyama-ish "End of History." Of course, decades after that declaration we see that neoliberal capitalism didn't shake out as well as its proponents initially thought, but that obsession with past glories remains.

In addition to that, the same kind of malignant nostalgia manifests itself in our media and our relationship to art. In Backrooms, the titular rooms are created by an imperfect misremembering of events, each iteration remembering less and less until only noise remains. The comparisons to generative artificial intelligence are apt, because generative AI is nothing more than weaponized, instrumentalized nostalgia. Its aims may differ, but the process of how it "creates" is arguably similar. It draws on nothing other than what it is given. It remembers imperfectly because it lacks the experience that accompanies memory - it hasn't lived those memories, so its output will always be an approximation, a caricature. In the words of Clark, "It's like describing a dog to someone who's never seen one, then asking them to draw one."

And that, in my opinion, is what sets apart iterative forms of art like The Four Bad Boys and Me and various forms of generated slop made by AI. In viral, memetic art, or in iterative forms of media (fanfiction, AUs, community-made lore), human experiences add to a growing body of art that evolves over time, where its storytelling conventions and tropes twist and turn according to the zeitgeist. On the other hand, AI cannot create anything objectively "new", it can only regurgitate whatever it is given. Over time, 'iterating' upon itself endlessly, it will never add - only subtract. It will take away and take away, until in the end, nothing is left.