Ang Panahon ng Halimaw (Season of the Devil)

There is a moment in Lav Diaz's latest film, Ang Panahon ng Halimaw, where one of the characters, frustrated and angry, laments through song: where are you, child of the motherland? Wake up, child of the motherland. He repeats this line a couple of times, but during the final repetition, he breaks the fourth wall and asks this question directly to the audience, and it becomes clear that any ambiguities are gone. This is a film that wears its heart on its sleeve.

These songs constitute only one aspect of the film's identity as political cinema; and even then, the film defies simple categorization. It is musical, yet anti-musical - aside from the end credits, everything is sung in acapella, and not always by accomplished singers. The songs give the film a strange character, both Brechtian in the sense that it creates a space of unrealism where the audience can reflect on the film's messages, but at the same time not Brechtian, since the emotional weight of its material cause an emotional investment nevertheless. 

Although the film takes place during the late seventies, it's obvious that Ang Panahon ng Halimaw uses the past to talk about the present. Like a good chunk of Diaz's oeuvre, the film is about the past threatening to repeat itself, but in this case, the worst case scenario has already happened: the town of Ginto is now under the spell of Chairman Narciso, a demagogue who has used his rule to spread lies and control the populace through violence and oppression. In many ways it's like his 2002 film Hesus Rebolusyonaryo, which used the future to talk about the present. Narciso's will is enforced by his own private militia, members of the Civil Home Defense Forces (the predecessor to the CAFGU, formed during the Cory Aquino administration,) historically known for their human rights abuses. Hugo (Piolo Pascual), a talented poet, goes to Ginto to search for his missing wife Lorena (Shaina Magdayao.) Something has happened to Lorena, who had come to Ginto to become a village doctor, but we do not know what exactly that is. In the course of his investigation, Hugo discovers the systematic abuses perpetrated by Narciso and his men on the local populace.

If the nature of the abusers sounds familiar to the typical Filipino viewer, it's not much of a surprise: one of the characters talks about the country being led by a boxer, a comedian and an actor. Narciso is a hideous man with two faces, and the face at the back of his head looks a little like a certain former dictator. His speeches are gibberish, loud and offensive to the ears, yet his underlings applaud him. One of the characters, a victim of oppression under Narciso's regime, is demonized and feared by the community thanks to fake news. When Diaz dedicates the film to the victims of Martial Law at the end of the film, there's a feeling that this might also include the victims of the current political situation, which is Martial Law in all but name.

This leads into one of the conundrums the film tries to reconcile: Ang Panahon ng Halimaw is definitely a film with a message, but it's still made with an arthouse sensibility that mainstream audiences may not readily embrace. Diaz's reflexiveness shines through: as Hugo descends deeper into the madness of Ginto, he looks more and more like an author-surrogate. Later on Hugo is chided by his torturers, telling him that no matter how thoughtful his art may become, his efforts will be futile in a nation of fools. Cognizant of the fact that in itself, it is not the answer, but the means to an answer, the film continually questions its own ability to effect change.

And in the grand scheme of things, Ang Panahon ng Halimaw is the latest in a series of experiments where Diaz tries to reach the masses. For one, it's shorter and far more briskly edited compared to Diaz's other films; the songs' repetitive nature almost reminds one of jingles - one song in particular has stayed with me days after having seen the film. And its plot, if one takes away all of the various sideplots garnishing the film, is exceedingly simple. It might not cater exactly to the tastes of fans or critics or cinephiles in airconditioned theaters, and that may be the point.

As a protest song and a piece of political cinema, Ang Panahon ng Halimaw does its job. But it needs to have a destiny outside the cinema, in town squares and barrios and among the poor and disenfranchised - otherwise it will serve as nothing more than preaching to the choir.

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Ang Panahon ng Halimaw will premiere in select Ayala Cinemas starting May 23.

Almost a Love Story lives up to its name

Baneng (Barbie Forteza) and Iggy (Derrick Monasterio) have a very unique friendship: they are childhood friends but they have spent most of their time apart: Baneng's mom works as Iggy's family's househelp-slash-yaya and she's spent most of her life overseas. When Iggy's family offers to bring Baneng to scenic Italy for some holiday downtime, the couple finally gets a chance to meet for the very first time.

The title "Almost a Love Story" is apt, because there isn't much of a love story in this film. Most of the first two thirds of the film consists of cute conversations between Baneng and Iggy through video chat. Everything we need to know about Baneng and Iggy's relationship is implied through dialogue. We don't really see the moment they fall in love, and there isn't a meet cute for these two to get together, because of the circumstances of the story.

To be fair, films about romances involving people who have barely met (if at all) do exist, and some are quite excellent. However, one of the most important things that those films have  in common is a moment or series of moments where the characters gain a deep understanding of each other regardless of the space between them. In this movie, that doesn't really happen. The conversations are mostly surface-level, and there isn't much of an opportunity to see the romance grow. What we get instead is the promise of a romance that doesn't really flesh itself out - with the peak of said romance being an extended sequence during the last third that can be accurately described as "cute couple doing cute things in an exotic location." 

The payoff thus ends up forced and unearned. Baneng goes to Italy and ends up barely knowing Iggy anyway, thanks to a third act contrivance foreshadowed in the first ten or so minutes of the film. It's affecting for all of ten seconds, the emotional impact ending when one realizes that it's all fluff.

The romance ultimately serves as a distraction from something in the movie that I legitimately felt interested in - the peculiar social setup between Baneng, Iggy and their parents. In Filipino society househelpers are at times considered members of the family. In this case, Baneng's mom serves as a second parent to Iggy. Over the years Baneng's mom, and by extension, Baneng herself, has become part of a larger extended family. Yet the film doesn't forget to reiterate the master-servant dynamic, which still plays itself out even to the very end - the turning point of the relationship is orchestrated by Iggy, who has the most power over the situation, and ultimately, the relationship. It's a good thing that the feelings were mutual - imagine a situation where Baneng wasn't in love with Iggy, her mother's amo? Would he have forced the situation? It would have made for some interesting dramatic setups.

But, alas, the film decides to focus on the non-romance that's unfolding in front of us, and instead of tears or an impulse to root for this almost-love-story, all I could really muster was a shrug.

Never Not Love You

Tattoos are a distinct motif in Antoinette Jadaone's latest film Never Not Love You - they reinforce the theme of a love that starts with youthful exuberance but then matures into something completely different. Getting a tattoo is a choice and a commitment, much like getting into a relationship. Getting rid of them isn't as easy, so the initial choice must take that into consideration - at least in theory, anyway - cue the millions of tattoos with the name of an ex displayed for all to see.

When Joanna (Nadine Lustre) falls in love with artist Gio (James Reid), the sparks are there, but it's all pretty low key. Yet sooner or later the two of them dive headstrong into their romance, depicted with a level of authenticity that one rarely sees in local cinema.

When their relationship runs into a number of problems, it's here where the film makes its case: when confronted with the possibility of sacrificing work for love, Gio and Joanna react differently. The former, having lived a relatively privileged, carefree life, initially chooses love, trying to reconcile a change in lifestyle with remaining comfortably in the status quo. Joanna, on the other hand, having come from a lower socioeconomic background, considers her family's economic situation in addition to her own happiness. Thus begins a perpetual seesaw of compromise, conflict, and resolution, one that is handled expertly. But that's what love is, once we get past idealistic fairytale notions on the subject: it's a neverending compromise, a commitment that requires considerable effort and sacrifice.

It's all done without the usual histrionics we're used to when watching mainstream romantic films, and for once this is a film that the JaDine love team deserves, as it pushes their talents to the limit. Nadine Lustre in particular shines, especially in the last few moments of the film where emotions are communicated through silence rather than words.

The film's visual style is also quite lovely, showing us both the cityscape of Makati rendered in neon lights, as well as lush sunlit views of Zambales. It's far removed from the candy colored visual styles of what we've been accustomed to, and it's a trend that we've been starting to see in the past five or so years. In many ways, just like how the romance in Never Not Love You matures, the genre itself matures alongside it, portraying more complex, nuanced depictions of romance in contemporary society.

The film ends in ambiguity, in a marvelous silent sequence that communicates all manners of things -  a reaffirmation of feelings now vastly different, perhaps reminiscence of a love that has irreversibly changed, perhaps even the slightest twang of regret, or the existential fear of an eventual doomed outcome. Never Not Love You is fascinating stuff, and it ranks among one of the year's best local films so far.

Dispatches from HKIFF (++) 2018, Part 5

It seems like I am fated to catch at least one Hong Sang-soo film every time I visit HK. His latest, Grass, is the latest of more than a dozen films in the last ten years. And wouldn't you know it, Hong's back to familiar rhythms: the film is a series of extended conversations between two or three people, mostly over drinks, sometimes alcoholic.

The structure is a bit looser, the conversations winding yet somehow interesting. The film inserts a character-as-surrogate into the picture in one of his conversations just like before, though there may be more than just one: Areum (Kim Min-hee), perhaps a callback to a character in one of Hong's earlier films, Claire's Camera, overhears much of the conversations while typing on her computer. It is unclear if the conversations playing out are a product of Areum's (and consequently, Hong's) mind or if they are really playing out in real life. it's a case of the creator beholding his or her own creation and reflecting upon it.

Perhaps the work is a demonstration of cinematic reflexivity where one's own thoughts and beliefs influence the work, which then influences the creator. Areum is played by Kim Min-hee, who recently split with the director last month shortly after the film was made following a very public extramarital affair. Areum's views are very much the most cynical in the entire film. In the last few minutes she only joins in conversation with the other characters (or figments of her imagination) upon the departure of the other Hong-surrogate. A separation of artist and muse? Perhaps the film was made as a portent of things to come?

Even at a lean 66 minutes, Grass is comfort food Hong. It may come across as a little abstract, but it's the director baring his soul at its most intimate level, in the only way an artist can.

Based on the one-woman play by Kearen Pang, 29+1 chronicles the struggles of women in contemporary Hong Kong as they reach the cusp of their twenties and thirties, where expectations regarding work, marriage and a stable future are made more evident. 

It reminds one of Sylvia Chang's 20 30 40, a film from neighboring Taiwan made around the same time as the play, tackling similar concerns. In a fast-paced, rapidly changing society, both films ask the question: what role can women play?

The film explores two different perspectives that delve into this question: Christy Lam (Chrissy Chau) is a career-minded working woman with a stable career and a boyfriend. But a series of events casts a shadow on that life, revealing a deep well of unhappiness. Through a series of circumstances leading to her getting evicted off her apartment, she spends her time in the apartment of Wong Tin-lok (Joyce Cheng) who has left for Paris. Wong is the same age as Christy, but their respective outlooks on life are drastically different: Wong is cheerful and content to stay where she is, living life at her own pace.

The film works best when it lets its characters shine, and falters when its messages become heavy handed. Both actresses (especially Cheng) shine in their roles, giving life and character to their character's struggles, making them relateable. Once the film makes several emotional turns near the end, it's hard not to get affected. As a thirtysomething myself, the uncertainty of life after the last vestiges of youth have gone away is a notion that is all too real.

While the film suffers from a number imperfections, the film overcomes them by sheer force of charm and by the stellar performances of both its leads.

Winner of last year's Short Film Palme D'Or, A Gentle Night begins in a police station. A girl has disappeared, and a policeman is interviewing the girl's father about the situation. As the conversation goes on, it's clear that the authorities don't exactly have a sense of urgency about the whole thing. Then the shot changes, revealing that the girl's mother was there too all along. The film then follows the mother as she traverses the night in search for her daughter.

The film may be short in length but not in emotional intensity; the mother's journey is colored by maternal fear, love and guilt. Not a single shot is wasted, and the movie finds depth despite its brevity, highlighting systems of apathy within bureaucracy, of women and children without men (or the other way around.)

It's a powerful demonstration of the medium of short film, and a treat to watch.

Thomas Stuber's In the Aisles is a quiet film, one that lies unassuming and is content to stay in the background, much like the workers it depicts. Christian (Franz Rogowski) is a newly hired worker at an East German supermarket. It's evident that he hasn't had the cleanest of past lives, as he hides his tattoos when he dresses up every day. But he gets along well with his colleagues, and is mentored by former trucker Bruno (Peter Kurth) who instructs him in the surprisingly delicate job of Forklift operation. He soon meets and falls in love with co-worker Marion (Sandra Huller), who has issues of her own.

While it can be argued that the romance is the central plot of In the Aisles, the movie doesn't touch on it too heavily; there are no impassioned declarations of love or wacky rom-com elements. The movie instead focuses on the small microcosm formed by the blue collar workers of the supermarket, with its own geography and culture. Christian even refers to it as "home", a preferable alternative to the drabness of his non-supermarket life.

It's also a film about how loneliness and isolation spurs people to make connections in the unlikeliest of places, and it treats its subjects with warmth and a bit of humanity. The film is mostly grounded in reality, but it takes whimsical comfort in the oceanlike sounds of forklift hydraulics, or the promise of a workplace relationship. And that's how people roll - finding happiness within and with each other.

***

That ends this year's coverage of the HKIFF, stay tuned for a bunch of movies that premiered over the Easter weekend. Till next time ~

Dispatches from HKIFF (++) 2018, Part 4

Most screenings today were sold out, so this is a relatively light entry (and RP1 isn't part of the HKIFF obvs).

Other than the basic premise, where a team of unlikely individuals race to find the greatest video game easter egg within a nostalgic virtual playground, Steven Spielberg's Ready Player One completely reworks Ernest Cline's original novel, truncating several elements and completely changing several scenarios, mostly for the better.

The adaptation manages to humanize James Halliday (Mark Rylance), the creator of the sprawling virtual world/MMORPG OASIS, making him into a character haunted by his faiilures and regrets in life. Rylance's speech at the end, while taken from the book, is made even more poignant here. It also removes some awkward and creepy moments between protagonist Wade Watts (Tye Sheridan) and his rival/partner Art3mis (Olivia Cooke), though some of the conflict between them is ultimately removed.

Despite being a film that perpetually bathes in nostalgia, the nature of the film's (and the book's) message epouses a rejection of escapism, where, despite our propensity for playthings and mindless entertainment, only 'reality is real.'

On the other hand, the film is unabashedly popcorn entertainment; it is wild, raucous fun and solidly made given Spielberg's filmmaking prowess. The film falls into the trap of being the exact kind of entertainment it stands against.

And the main thing that hampered the book also affects the film: without the rose tinted lenses of nostalgia, the film doesn't hold together as well. Only history will tell us how well the film will age ten or twenty years down the line. But in the here and now, Ready Player One is a pretty great ride.

Halley (Bria Vinaite) and her daughter Moonee (Brooklynn Prince) live in a motel at the very fringes of Disney World. Halley struggles to make ends meet through the help of friends and neighbors, but her rebellious attitude makes inding a legitimate job very hard. Meanwhile, insulated from her mother's troubles, Moonee spends her days, carefree, with her friends, getting into troubles of her own.

The characters of The Florida Project are people who live in the margins of society, a sentiment that is reflected in the film in more ways than one. Despite the film taking place right next to Disney World, we only see glimpses of it: fireworks in the distance, the ever present whirring of tour helicopters, a rogue tourist here and there. 

Baker, at least in his past two films, likes to juxtapose dreamlike fantasy worlds like Disney World and Hollywood and the concerns of Americans in the margins of society, contrasting them. 

And this is a film about children and their perspective; even if the characters of the Florida Project spend their lives (almost) never setting foot inside the "Happiest Place on Earth," they find their own happiness, as children do.  It's even reflected in both the beginning and end of the film with renditions of Kool & The Gang's Celebration, both prefacing very different chapters in these children's lives. It may seem absurd, finding something to celebrate about in such abject poverty, but that's a special power that chiildren just have.

It's also a film about parents: surrogate parents, fathers, mothers, and the extremities of their love: though one cannot say these people are the best parents for their children, they try their best and love their children, blood related or not, with all the love they can muster.

And despite how brash and incorrigible some of the characters may be, they are driven by something positive. That notion, finding something good in a wretched world, is indeed something worth celebrating.

(The preceding review is a reworking of a review for the Florida Project, previously not published here in this blog.)

Dispatches from HKIFF (++) 2018, Part 3

We begin today's slew of reviews with Young Girls Vanish, a short film that tries to connect a series of grisly murders from the 1600's and contemporary violence towards women. In the 1600's, these murders, often violent mutilations, were attributed to the activity of a giant wolf, but it soon becomes clear that some of these murders might be due to something closer to reality (i.e. the actions of depraved men). However, the film doesn't quite succeed in pulling off its thesis; it comes off as too subtle for its own good.

Amiko is a somewhat rebellious young teenager with a very distinct view in life. When she falls in love with a schoolmate Aomi, she does what many teens would do in this situation: sit on her feelings and let it simmer into wild fantasies and idealizations. But when Aomi stops going to class, Amiko takes action.

Amiko is an amalgamation of slice-of-life, wacky absurd comedy and teenage angst. It's a bit rough overall giiven its independent nature, but the product does have a certain level of charm to it that's undeniable. At a lean 66 minutes, the film doesn't overstay its welcome and at least it has that going or it.

Ryuichi Sakamoto has accumuated an impressive body of work eer since he started working in the eighties as part of the Yellow Magic Orchestra. In Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda, a documentary by Stephen Nomura Schible, we see Sakamoto delve into his influences and what goes on when he creates music.

The documentary des not pretend to be a comprehensive historical document of Sakamoto's life, though there are still glimpses of that in this film. We see his early days at the YMO, his forays into acting and composing film music (including a fantastic anecdote where he rewrote and performed the intro for Bernardo Bertolucci's The Sheltering Sky in thirty minutes) and his recent struggles with throat cancer and the creation of async, one of his best albums to date.

Sakamoto's image and style has shifted over the years: from his early electronica days, he has gone into a musical style that can be described as a mix of electronica, minimaliist and ambient soundscapes, as well as a bit of orchestration. Still, in the middle of all that is the piano, which he considers the heart of all his music.

Sakamoto's influences are also laid bare - Bach organ solos, Tarkovskian film scoring, ambient sounds in nature, politics and environmental activism. Fascinating is the part where Sakamoto wants to create a film score for a non-existent movie, eventually creating such a track in his latest album.

Perhaps one of the most uplifting statements of the film is where Sakamoto finds beauty in the things we often take for granted: the ntion of his own impending death, or a line from Tarkovsky's Solaris, or the sounds of nature, or a decrepit piano, the "corpse of a piano that drowned" during the Fukushima nuclear disaster. A documentary or fans and music lovers alike, Ryuichi Sakamoto: Coda is fascinating stuff.

Samuel Maoz's Foxtrot begins with a distressing emotional scene when Michael Feldman is told that his son jonathan, a soldier in the Israeli Defense Forces has died in the line of duty. But Foxtrot is far more than a simple examination of grief and mourning, it confronts a far bigger picture - the ongoing conflict between Israel and Palestine - and it does so while being a pitch black comedy.

The film is divided into three segments, each covering a different point in time. The second part focuses on Jonathan himself, working a mostly boring job manning a remote outpost on the Israeli border. The monotony actually helps depict how much  animosity and predjudice has normalized between the Israelis and the Palestinians to the point where it becomes routine, including one scene where a Palestinian couple, perhaps having come straight from a party, is made to stand in the pouring rain. Even though the order is absurd and meaningless, the couple does so, and the man looks at his wife with nothing more than a look of resignation.

And absurdity becomes Foxtrot's main weapon, so to say: it illuminates how senseless and pointless the war has become. Perhaps subliminally, Jonathan's family feels that as well, their comfortable middle-class lives detached from what is happening.

And in the third part, where it all comes together, the Foxtrot metaphor rings true: everything has changed but everything also goes back to where it came from. There's a story within a story where a priceless family heirloom is replaced by a porno magazine, where something noble has been replaced with something vulgar being passed from father to son, much like how the scars of a neverending conflict are now inherited through generations. 

Rendered in beautifully stylized rotoscoped animation, Tehran Taboo plays out ike a greatest-hits version of Iranian social cinema: it critiques multiple facets of Iran's very strict, patriarchal society through the intersecting lives of several characters. There's Pari driven into prostitution because of a drug-addicted husband who is locked in prison; there's Sara, who wants to work but is restricted by her banker husband, and Babak, who gets into a bind after a drug fueled night of sex.

The film doesn't try to be subtle about it: this is a film of protest, and it doesn't shy away from showing the many double standards and hypocrisies that exist in such a society. Perhaps comparisons can be made with this film and Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis, also animated and also made by an Iranian expat. It's been said that it isn't as bad anymore in real contemporary Iranian society, but if the foundations of abuse are still there, scenarios like the ones depicted in the film can still happen.

The film also skillfully avoids making its characters into caricatures, giving them complex stories and personalities that are relatable, all made even more devastating given the film's conclusion.

Tehran Taboo is a film that will make a lot of people indignant and angry. At the very least I hope it helps start a conversation towards real and just change.

Dispatches from HKIFF (++) 2018, Part 2

It might seem a little absurd to make a movie out of an (admittedly popular) app about colllecting cats, but the world's been guilty of far more. Neko Atsume no Ie (Neko Atsume's House) is the story of Masaru Sakumoto (Atsushi ito), a once-popular novelist who has gotten into a slump. On a whim, he decides to move to a house to the countryside, where the power of cats help him get his groove back.

That's the plot of the film, and while it does spread pretty thin for a movie this long, the cats almost make up for it. Almost. Ito (and co-star Shiori Kutsuna) are both excellent despite this, and the cinematography works best when covering our feline friends (and not humans), where the camerawork revolves around a handheld treatment and too-close-for-comfort closeups.

Surprisingly, the film does follow the mechanics of the original game (buy cat toys and cushions and food, wait for cats to arrive, take pictures, rinse and repeat) so it technically is a faithful adaptation of its source material. But for those looking for more than just cats, viewers may find nothing more of substance here.

A young teenager, Eunchan, dies while saving his friend Ki-hyun during a swimming trip. Devatated, Eunchan's parents try to reconcile their grief and the death of their son. Eunchan's father, through a set of circumstances, then takes in Ki-hyun as an apprentice, where the young man begins to learn the trade of wallpapering and craftsmanship.

It sounds like everything is set to fall into place in Shin Dong-seok's Last Child: the parents without a child coming together with a child desperately in need of parental figures. But the truth and the eventual outcome of the film ends up being far more complicated. Last Child is an examination of guilt, societal hypocrisy, forgiveness and grief, much like the works of Shin's countryman, Lee Chang-dong - in particular, one of his more recent films, Poetry. 

Last Child is boosted in particular by several performances, most notably the central three characters, who all deal with Eunchan's death in varied and interesting ways. The film avoids shifting into frank melodrama and treats its characters with a touch of sincerity. The film builds up rather well, culminating in an emotionally charged finale reminiscent of last year's Harmonium (2016/7) but with a different, almost cathartic, outcome.

Tina is a loving mother to her daughter Vittoria, both spending a rather idyllic life in the Sardinian countryside. But the truth is, Vittoria is adopted, and one day she meets her true mother, Angelica, who is the complete opposite of what Tina embodies: irresponsible, drunk, rebellious. Vittoria becomes captivated by this mother she never knew, and this eventually puts the three in conflict with each other as Vittoria tries to reconcile the fact that she has two mothers.

Daughter of Mine is a fascinating character study from director Laura Bispuri. It soon becomes clear that both Tina and Angelica have their own dysfunctions and positive traits. Tina looks like a responsible, doting mother, but she has a hidden petty, vengeful side, and her possessiveness of Vittoria drives the child away. Angelica looks irresponsible, brash and incorriginble, but there is a genuine desire to reconnect with her daughter - at one point, she tries to pay off a long standing debt that would help alleviate her situation, but she decides to spend it on a gift for her daughter instead.

The treatment can get a little rough in parts, and certain stretches of the film feel a bit overlong for a simple story, But at the heart of it, Daughter of Mine is relateable story worth teling.

Yoshika (Mayu Matsuoka) is still smitten by her high school crush, Ichi. She spends her time fantasizing about him and reminiscing the very few times they actually spoke to each other. In the mean time, she puts up with Ni, an awkward and obnoxious, but ultimately well meaning, coworker who wishes to be her boyfriend.

Observant and funny, Akiko Ooku's Tremble All You Want has all the tropes of a conventional chick-lit romance, but it has a diferent conception of love, one that is far removed from the shoujo manga-esque notions of falling in love and ending up with your dream guy. It presents love as something rooted in a mutual understanding rather than a one sided fantasy, a relationship where both parties actively work together to understand each other, a relationship where love grows gradually and naturally, moving from "I like you" to "I love you".

Mayu Matsuoka's performance is fantastic; she keeps up with the wacky demands of the script and shows off her versatile range, laughing and crying and singing with considerable amounts of charm (yes, there's an extended musical segment in this film). 

Yoshika's story ultimately boils down to her getting out of her shell, where she realizes that the people around her are not just props for her own fantasies, but flesh and blood people with their own dreams and aspirations, their own story to tell, and her personal growth is reflected when she genuinely begins to setp out into the world and get to know people and talk to them sincerely.

It's a journey that takes a couple of detours, especially in the last third where a bunch of contrivances extend the running time far more for my taste. But in the end, Tremble All You Want is a crowd pleaser whose view on love is atypical compared to the slew of contemporary Japanese rom-coms out there.

this is (not) a review of Kamandag ng Droga THE MOVIE

Last year's best film was obviously Carlo J. Caparas' Kamandag ng Droga, and I felt it needed a much more... dedicated tribute. Although the original is better than the adaptation in most cases, I think this can communicate the thoughts of the original (non) review in a different way.

I also noticed a few things from the original piece that are actually slightly inaccurate. Probably because I was too busy laug... admiring the film at the time.

BASTA DONT DO DRUGS DAW

Since Youtube is content ID-ing an obvious work of criticism, you can DM me on twitter for a link to the video (non) review and the password.  You can take a look at the video here. Facebook friends get them automatically. I think~

This statement is not an April Fools joke obvs