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.
---------------
Ang Panahon ng Halimaw will premiere in select Ayala Cinemas starting May 23.
No comments:
Post a Comment