Dispatches from Tokyo International Film Festival 2019: Atlantis, Hitoyo (One Night)

Upon first glance one might think that Valentyn Vasyanovych's Atlantis is a bleak film, full of death, desolate landscapes and silence. But in the post screening Q and A, Vasyanovych calls himself an optimist, and it's easy to see why: set a little more than five years in the future, the film depicts a post apocalyptic landscape, the aftermath of the Ukrainian-Russian war. But at least in this movie the war has ended; as things are going now, that possibility feels like decades away. Within this deliberate, at times elusive arthouse film there is hope, even love.

When Sergiy (Andriy Rimaruk, himself a real life veteran of the war) loses his job at a local factory, he drifts until by chance he comes across a volunteer group that seeks to retrieve the bodies of fallen Ukrainian soldiers and give them a proper burial. Vasyanovych is the fan of the long take, letting us absorb the vast emptiness of these vistas, single human forms across expansive landscapes. Each frame is like a painting, meticulously crafted, often cold and distant. In one scene, a forensic examination of the dead is carried in detail, the proof of their humanity existing only in bits and pieces, descriptions of a uniform or belt buckle, warmth that has gone cold.

But Vasyanovych balances this out with finding warmth in impossible places, making the opening and closing scenes bookends - showing that even in such hopeless situations, people are hardwired to find love in the chaos, bringing warmth to a cold and dead land.

Based on a play by Yuko Kuwabara, Hitoyo (One Night) begins with a shocking murder. A female taxi driver (Yuko Tanaka, perhaps best known in Japan for her role in Oshin) runs over a man who turns out to be her husband. But as it turns out, she did it partly in desperation and partly for her children: her husband is a violent, raging alcoholic who regularly beats his children. She goes to prison for this, promising to return one day. And when she does, her children turn out quite different than expected.

A solid family drama about the roles of parent and child, as well as ideas of guilt and social perception, Hitoyo is a treat to watch. Held up by its excellent ensemble cast, it doesn't let up and twists and turns deliriously until the very end. The film changes its point of view from the mother to the children, especially the middle child, Yuji (Takeru Satoh) and focuses on the aftermath of that one event: while an aspiring novelist, Yuji struggles to make a living, left to write pieces for dirty magazines. His siblings also have similar broken dreams. But how much is that on them vs on their mother?

Director Kazuya Shiraishi keeps the proceedings close and personal, and it manages to work. Although some plot points are left resolved by the end, the film's open-endedness ends on a hopeful note. It doesn't exactly stem from complete understanding - that will come in time. But there's something about parents and children and their capacity for forgiveness and love, even in difficult circumstances.

Dispatches from Tokyo International Film Festival 2019: A Sun, Nevia, Disco, He Won't Kill, She Won't Die, Mañanita

Mong-hong Chung's A Sun begins with unexpected violence: a shot of a severed hand, marinating in soup. It then morphs into a strangely uplifting, if a little melodramatic, family drama about parental responsibility.

It's clear that the two children of the central lower middle-class family are complete opposites: one is an aspiring medical student, the other is a juvenile delinquent who finally overstepped the line. When another large shock ripples through the family dynamic, the family surprisingly finds itself adjusting for the better.

The sun itself plays into the fortunes of this family, acting as a symbol of parents themselves and the light they shine on the children they raise. The sun shines equally on everyone, one character states, though for the first part of the film, this is hardly the case. One stays in darkness, while one is blinded by light, unable to rest in shadow.

Though a bit overlong in parts, the film does tackle a lot in its 150-minute timeframe: the loss of social mobility (and a sense of resignation) among the lower classes, ennui and disillusionment among the youth, unfeeling educational systems. There's a strange tonal clash at the end when things veer more into crime drama, then back into sentimentality that only feels partially earned. A Sun is certainly a mixed bag, but interesting nonetheless.

Nunzia De Stefano spent a number of years working in the circus, and that fascination finds echoes in her film Nevia. A social realist drama that evokes the works of some of her contemporaries, the film charts the life of a teenage girl (Virginia Apicella) as she tries to eke out a living for her younger sister. She isn't exactly living in the best of conditions: the region was irrevocably changed by an earthquake, its residents made to live in cheap housing. Nevia's own home is  at times used for the black market and even prostitution. Police raids are a constant fear. There's talk of having Nevia marry one of her grandmother's shady associates. She often finds herself the recipient of unwanted advances by said shady associates, and some interactions even feel like grooming.

Nevia is Apicella's first film, but she manages to carry the film on her shoulders. A circus gymnast herself, she's familiar with the ins and outs of the circus environment.

The circus in this case represents freedom, a nomadic life free of any societal constraints, whether through class or gender. It's a dirty job, but it's a job the young girl finds honorable. And for people like her, that is more than enough.

There is an inherent hierarchy to many religions; of course, any belief system with a god or gods automatically has at least one tier. Usually, there are more for entities less divine: preachers, pastors, clergymen, all above the layman. With hierarchies come power, and with power comes abuse and oppression. Jorunn Myklebust Syversen's Disco is a quietly disturbing, at times languid examination of these systems.

Its protagonist, Mirjam (Josephine Frida Pettersen, perhaps best known in the Norwegian drama series Skam) drifts from one belief system to the other. One is a youth oriented church similar to Hillsong, another is a more orthodox style of church, and the other is a charismatic summer camp, whose activities grow increasingly disturbing. In fact, secular Japanese audiences likened the proceedings to a horror film, a notion that I tend to agree with.

The film meanders a bit and struggles to connect its disco dancing part with its religious part, but I feel it has a special sort of specificity that will perhaps resonate with audiences who struggle with faith from Christian-majority countries.

Beware false prophets, one preacher proclaims. Only those who accept Jesus in their hearts are saved. But the film offers a question: what if none of these prophets are true? It's seen in the bookends of the films first and last frames, lost in sea or land, different landscapes but  lost all the same.

Based on an online manga that found immense popularity on Twitter, He Won't Kill, She Won't Die follows three narrative threads. The first one, where the title is based on, follows an odd girl and a listless guy forming a peculiar friendship; the second follows a girl who plays around, but genuinely wants a relationship, and the third follows a guy and the girl who confesses her love to him almost every day.

As all high school youth dramas go, the proceedings are lighthearted, a bit melodramatic, but ultimately life-affirming. It's also surprisingly tender and deals with attitudes towards friendship, love and death. At the same time, the proceedings are neither wacky nor overly unrealistic; the film almost reads like a mumblecore romance, full of dialogue and musings about life in general.

It manages to pull things together at the end, even making some surprising turns as it tries to connect everything together. It manages to reach a place that feels genuinely affecting, even managing to elicit more than a few sniffles from a normally stoic Japanese crowd.

Paul Soriano tries his hand with slow cinema in his latest film, Mañanita. It's obvious that this attempt is partly also thanks to the hand of Lav Diaz, who wrote the film's script. His hands are invisibly seen throughout the film. Mañanita is based on a peculiar, real life tale where the local police have decided on a more peaceful take on our government's murderous war on drugs: they serenade local suspects in the hopes that they will surrender. It's a very Filipino way to win over your enemies by the power of music, and it shows in the film itself.

The film follows a former government solider (Bela Padilla) who is still reeling from a major traumatic event from her past. She spends her days drinking beer, getting wasted and playing pool. But when the source of her trauma becomes palpable, she has the chance to react.

Mañanita, like the true story it is based on, is full of songs from the golden days of Filipino music in the seventies and eighties, from singers like Asin or Freddie Aguilar. They are protest songs, and songs that seek to elicit change. As the film goes on, it becomes clear that the songs serve as serenades themselves: both to the protagonist and to the Filipino people, to change and end the culture of impunity that surrounds us, and perhaps as a wider call for revolutionary change through peaceful means.

QCinema Festival Report Day 8: The Cave, Nakorn-Sawan

The true story of the Tham Luang cave rescue is prime movie material. Tom Waller's The Cave takes the perspective of the rescuers, civilians and normal folk involved with the rescue, a huge international effort that included the expertise of several countries.

Waller takes a western, almost Hollywood approach to the film, but contrary to expectations, the film doesn't elicit much tension or urgency. Much of it is lost as the film decides to meander with procedures and minutiae instead. Since the film focuses on so many characters, there is little time for emotional involvement with any of them: one exception being the farmers who sacrificed their land in order to drain the flood waters accumulating in the cave.

Similar to Clint Eastwood's The 15:17 to Paris (2018),  Waller has some of the real life divers behind the rescue play themselves in this film. This shares the same problems as Eastwood's movie: while these people are some of the best in the world at what they do (diving), they're not exactly the best actors in the world, and skilled actors are what this film needs to bring some punch to the proceedings. The Cave deserves some points for trying, but it didn't do a lot for me.

Films serve many functions: to entertain, to tell a story, to send a message, to serve as protest or political statement. In the case of Puangsoi Aksornsawang's Nakorn-sawan, film is also used as a means of therapy and introspection.

The film interweaves two threads, creating a hybrid of documentary and fiction: in one, a woman sends off her mother in a river ceremony, meeting old friends and family members along the way. In the other thread, Puangsoi shows home video footage of her mother and family.

Both narrative threads mix seamlessly, as the border between them is not always felt: both of its 'protagonists' studied in film in another country, and both deal with tragedy and loss, albeit in different ways. They are echoes of each other, reality and fiction mingling with other, shaping and reshaping each others' form, perhaps also doubling as commentary on how great art comes from great pain.

QCinema 2019 Festival Report Day 6 and 7: Spring by the Sea, For My Alien Friend, The Whistlers, Nina Wu

Two local documentaries that are part of the DocQC section are very personal glimpses into their respective filmmaker's lives. The first one, Aleia Garcia's Spring by the Sea, uses home video footage, taken either by Garcia or her father, to chronicle the goings-on of the Garcia family as they live in Yanbu, Saudi Arabia. Much like Wena Sanchez's All Grown Up, it's a level of intimacy that makes one feel as if he or she were a good family friend, watching old home videos along with everyone else.

Some might say that the proceedings will feel a bit slight, inconsequential, even. But that seems to be the point of such slices of life: these events may be mundane to some, but they are deeply profound to the people who made them and to people with OFW parents, whose desire to provide a better life for their families leads to fragmentation, at least in terms of physical distances. In that sense, the heart of Spring by the Sea is the fact that home is wherever the heart is, and a family, no matter wherever they are in the world, stays together through invisible bonds that transcend such distances.

A large QR code shows up during the first few minutes of Jet Leyco's For My Alien Friend. It is a silent challenge to the viewer to pull out their phones to find out what the code means (and look like a film pirate in the process) or stay put and let the mystery linger unsolved. Such playfulness is characteristic of For My Alien Friend, which mixes home video footage, personal experiences and experimental imagery to create one of the most fascinating films of the year.

The documentary features the same level of intimacy as Spring by the Sea, but this time it feels as if we are surreptitiously intercepting a message that we aren't supposed to listen to. This would normally put us at an emotional distance from the work, but the film's playful cues to engage with the work counters that notion. It's also a film that feels profound, but has enough self awareness that it doesn't take itself seriously that much.

The film releases its information in bits and pieces, stories and anecdotes, chunks of information that are being transmitted to us - memetic transference in the original sense of the word. This also reflects Leyco's introspection as a filmmaker: in 'transmitting' this film to the void, he as a filmmaker tries to reach out with his stories even though there might be no one on the other end. For My Alien Friend also feels hopeful: there is also the hope of most artists to connect with others through their work, that someday, somehow, someone would see their art and feel something.

A neo-noir through and through, Corneliu Porumboiu's The Whistlers is a fun, at times funnily absurdist crime thriller with a number of twists and turns that will leave audiences reeling.

Its protagonist shares the name of the protagonist of Porumboiu's Police, Adjective (2009), both cops who deal with ethical dilemmas, but this time our protagonists's motives are grayer than normal. Cristi (Vlad Ivanov) is roped in to help release a businessman from a Spanish town. But in order to do that, he has to learn Silbo Gomero, a whistling language used by the local populace to communicate discreetly over vast distances. 

Porumboiu continues his examination of language and words. While in Police, Adjective, there was an emphasis on meaning, here there is also an exploration of language as a tool for communication. Meaning also plays a role in The Whistlers, a tale about a man who plays double (or even triple) agent with the people he works with. While not the best film coming out of the Romanian New Wave, The Whistlers is a fine addition to it.

While Midi Z's Nina Wu inevitably draws comparisons to films like Satoshi Kon's Perfect Blue (1997), that film has a specificity to it in terms of idol culture that this film does not have. In a lot of ways, the film reminds me more of Jerrold Tarog's Bliss (2017) which also dealt with the cutthroat nature of the showbiz industry.

The fractured narrative and reality breaking sequences are great, as we see Nina (Wu Ke-xi) unravel while trying to piece together what happened to her one night when she auditioned for a major, starmaking film. In the face of #MeToo and given the numerous related easter eggs presented by the film, the outcome isn't hard to guess, but it's still shocking in all its barefaced horror.

This is where the film will divide viewers: the film is written by Wu herself, based on her personal experiences working in the industry. It's been said that sometimes, films that depict such traumas are testimonies. But at the same time, how would it elevate the discourse, and where should the line be drawn when delineating between depiction and exploitation?

Isa Pa With Feelings

Prime Cruz has previously explored the concept of loneliness and how people connect in films like Sleepless (2015) or Ang Manananggal sa Unit 23B (2016). In the latter film, he used pet turtles as a motif to depict this particular connection. In his latest film, Isa Pa With Feelings, he uses fish in aquariums to depict how people become isolated and othered, made to live in their own worlds or communities, and often not by choice.

Mara (Maine Mendoza) experiences this first hand when she fails to pass the Architecture board exam. It's a peculiar feeling that not many people will get to experience in their lives, but failing such a major exam isolates you from your friends. There's a modicum of self-pity and shame involved as your colleagues now feel like they inhabit another world, while you're stuck in limbo. She then finds solace with Gali (Carlo Aquino), a deaf teacher with dreams and aspirations of his own. In different ways, they've been othered by the world or by their own insecurities. She soon falls for him, but is the difference between them too large to overcome?

The film is a visual and aural marvel. It manages to capture the perspective of a deaf person by putting us in their shoes, through both sound and sight. We then become frustrated when hearing folk do not understand the deaf characters, because we know what they are going through. The film emanates empathy and gives dignity to the people that we empathize with. In a culture (film or otherwise) where people with disabilities are treated with apprehension or ridicule, the depiction here in Isa Pa With Feelings deserves merit.

And how do we empathize and connect? The film shows us that it is through language, both spoken and unspoken. While the translations of sign language have gaps in them at first, they fill out as Mara learns more of it. Dance figures heavily in the film, and dance in itself is a form of expression. Gali and Mara find their connection with each other, even though it means some level of compromise - because that's what love is, isn't it? The themes all culminate in two fantastic dance sequences where our main characters express their feelings wordlessly, their bodies moving in sync with the music and with each other, two hearts beating in tandem. In a year full of great local cinematic moments, this ranks among the best of them.

Isa Pa With Feelings is probably one of my favorite films of the year. It is perhaps not the best, and the film is not perfect, but it doesn't really matter. It's a film that shows that the spaces between people can be bridged - fish leaving the confines of their small aquariums and gaining access to the wide open world in front of them.

QCinema 2019 Festival Report Day 5: A Girl Missing

If there's anything that ties together the body of Koji Fukada's filmic work, it is that his films stretch the notion of Japanese social graces to their breaking point, and that his films are filled with the most delicious irony. While his latest, A Girl Missing, is not his best work, it remains a solidly made film filled with exceptional performances.

As in films like Hospitalite (2010) and Harmonium (2016) there is an 'intruder' within a Japanese family, but this time, it's by choice: Ichiko Shirakawa (Mariko Tsutsui) is the nurse and caretaker of elderly painter Toko. Having served the Oishi family for a long time, she is trusted by all the members of this all-female family, including aspiring nurse Motoko (Mikako Ichikawa) and young student Saki (Miyu Ogawa). When Saki disappears, the fallout from that disappearance begins to work its way onto Ichiko's life.

Perception is central to A Girl Missing; in one scene, Ichiko talks with her hairdresser friend (Sosuke Ikematsu) about how artists interpret sunflowers. Van Gogh perceived them as symbols of life, while another painter perceived them as symbols of death. And it is in perception, and the implied miscommunication that comes with a wrong(ful) perception of somebody, that contributes to her downfall. She misreads the intentions of another character. Her actions are misconstrued by the media. Reviews of this film remark on how restrained it is, commenting that the rage that builds up within Ichiko does not boil over. But that's simply not the Japanese way. Fukada stretches and stretches the tension to its breaking point, but the conventions of honne and tatemae are still there, stronger than anything else. It allows only for one, shrill, sustained sound, emblematic of all the hurt and pain that has been suffered so far. In crafting A Girl Missing (and all his other films) Fukada continues his exploration of the spaces between people by trying to disrupt that space, and so far he's been very good at it.

QCinema 2019 Festival Report Day 4: A is for Agustin, Suburban Birds, Fly By Night

The opening scene of Grace Simbulan's A is for Agustin is that of its titular subject playing a song on a guitar. It's obvious Mang Agustin, who gathers and sells coal by trade, is a talented person, full of promise. But the social realities of Mang Agustin's situation prevent him from realizing his full potential. There are also intersecting concerns that hinder him from achieving more: he lacks a formal education, and as an Aeta, his tribe has long faced its share of discrimination. Because of his own personal desire to achieve more, and on the urgings of his mother, Mang Agustin sets off to go back to school.

It's a simple story, presented as is, yet powerfully told. There's something both infectiously charming and affecting about Mang Agustin's earnestness to learn to read and write. It's a story that has been addressed before in fictional films, but Billy Madison and Back to School this isn't. Mang Agustin tries to study the best he can, but he still needs to feed his family. The question now becomes, how can he balance his life with studies? This is a question many students face when they go to school, but here it gains extra power because of the unique circumstances at play.

There's power in A is for Agustin's simplicity. It's technically adroit presentation only manages to enhance its depiction of a simple, hardworking man who wants nothing more than to uplift his family from poverty. It's also a call for the importance of education, and how it should be a basic human right for every Filipino, young and old.

There's a textural quality to Qiu Sheng's Suburban Birds that feels tantalizing -  it is a film that pulls energy and inspiration from different filmmakers, yet it stands on its own as a unique meditation on memory and forgetting. It evokes the mystery of Apichatpong Weerasethakul's arthouse films, with the rapidly developing industrial landscapes of Qiu's Chinese contemporaries, and an old camera technique seen most recently with the films of Hong Sang-soo.

Its two disparate stories weave together in strange ways: the first, a tale of surveyors tasked with finding out if a part of the city is sinking. The second, a tale of a group of children facing  separation and adulthood. The first tale addresses political issues and bureaucracy (each team member has a different approach to the problem, while some would rather sweep everything under the carpet), while the second addresses issues of class (each child comes from a different socioeconomic background, one notes that his bed is hard while luxuriating in his classmate's comfy bed).

The common thread in both films is the landscape strewn out before them: the surveyors take long trips to find out if the land is level, the children walk through the quickly denuding concrete jungles that are their homes, threatened by demolition and rapid urbanization. In both cases, like birds whose migratory paths have been disrupted, they wander. Are the two stories really related? Are they separated by time? Is one story being imposed on the other, like superimposed layers on a painting? It's a mystery with no clear answers, but it is still fun to parse nevertheless.

But these landscapes, eroding and fading away like hazy memories, change and evolve over time. And in both narrative threads, the forest exists as a refuge - the last bastion of cherished memories, or a place to rest. But there is also wistful longing for friends now gone and memories lost. Suburban Birds may be slow, esoteric and obscure. It is not for everyone. But to this viewer, it is a stunning debut, an utterly magical experience.

Fly By Night is an energetic Malaysian crime thrillers that addresses ideas of class and race. By its nature and in the languages that we hear throughout the movie, it more accurately reflects the diversity of its population and culture in such a way that I haven't really seen since the early to mid 2000's with the films of the late Yasmin Ahmad.

It has all the hallmarks of a great crime story: a family based extortion ring, a cool and collected boss, a trusty lieutenant, a rebellious younger member who is way over his head, an over the top villain (who seems to be channeling Jared Leto's Joker,) car chases, buckets of gore, violence aplenty.

It's fun watching plans go awry, subplots piling up one after another until it all violently explodes in our faces. Perhaps the disparate plot threads could have been tied together better, but I'll take what I can get. Genre fans will eat this up and its easy to see why. Despite the stylistic influences, the film remains uniquely Malaysian.

QCinema 2019 Festival Report, Day 3: Ave Maryam

Ave Maryam's tale of desire within the confines of a home for elderly nuns is not new; the most classic example would probably be 2002's The Crime of Padre Amaro. But in the context of a conservative, predominantly Muslim country like Indonesia, this film is pretty novel. Inevitably, a tinge of cultural specificity is lost when a film is transplanted from one audience to another. 

That said, the film's depiction of the conflict between faith and love will probably resonate despite cultural barriers. Again, it's not a novel approach, but the film's mood and atmosphere is top notch, thanks to brilliant cinematography and production design. The film takes its time to immerse us in the rhythms of its protagonists' lives, and as such the first act may feel a little slow. The buildup to the romance implies a lot - perhaps too much, which is the film's greatest weakness - but it is more successful than not. 

Perhaps the one novelty that comes from this film is the response to Maryam's desire for freedom and love, but in the context of the film, it makes sense: the nuns whom Maryam live with are already past the prime of their lives, having spent their lives in the service of an invisible God. They know the sacrifice such a vocation entails, and their actions are meant to push Maryam towards the right decision for her, even if it means possibly leaving that vocation forever.

While Ave Maryam's atmosphere is top notch, I'm still not convinced it's as fully formed as it could be.

QCinema 2019 Festival Report, Days 1 and 2: Untrue, Cleaners, Babae at Baril, Kaaway sa Sulod, Shorts, On a Magical Night

QCinema starts off with Sigrid Andrea Bernardo's Untrue, a stark departure from her body of work. It's best to watch this movie blind without any preconceptions, so I recommend to skip this review until you've seen this film. TL;DR: whether you like it or not, this film was a rollercoaster from start to finish.

The film starts off almost like a dark parody of Bernardo's Mr. and Mrs. Cruz (2018), a talky romcom that seeks to deconstruct the idea of romantic things. and how they are perceived. But something is immediately off from the start. Xian Lim's character is off kilter, and he doesn't act like a normal person. Is he really this way, or is the narrator unreliable? The second act turns this all on its head, its perspective now changed. The film makes us question reality in the same way Xian Lim tried to in films like Tabon (2019), though here the effort is far more successful. The direction in the second half is tight and calculated, the shots mirror images of scenes we've seen before. Lim and his screen partner Cristine Reyes are excellent here, basically playing at least two different characters.

The third act effectively plays on our preconceptions as we learn what really happened. It hinges on the absurd, but by this time we are either invested or we aren't. In this case, the filmmaking manages to pull it off somehow, though not all will be pleased with how cleanly it all wraps itself up.

I was unable to watch all of Glenn Barit's Cleaners, but I really loved what I saw. It's a seriously affecting treatise on youth and memory that's much more than a visual gimmick.

Barit's experimentations with form have been present ever since he started making films: in Aliens Ata (2017) the 'alien's eye' POV effectively creates distance from us and his subjects, much like its subjects are separated from their OFW parents; in Nangungupahan (2018) his peculiar cut-out style helps establish an apartment as a place full of history and memories now gone. In Cleaners, all of the images are created from photocopied images, sometimes colored with highlighters. It's a fitting visual motif: this film, after all, is a collection of memories; what are memories but hazy facsimiles of our experiences?

Cleaners is divided into several segments, each depicting a story about young people living their teenage lives the best they can. The stories are mostly things we've seen before, but the visuals give them an extra layer of depth. The standout segment (out of the four I managed to watch) is probably the second to the last one, where a political scion learns the ins and outs of small town politics firsthand. It's an interesting intersection of youth and the larger, adult world that I don't often see in teen oriented films such as this.

The last chapter of Cleaners is a collective cry out into the world - perhaps one last expression of youthful defiance or expression, one last chance to make a mess of things, before adulthood sets in and the classroom is cleaned for the next class to come.

Jean Luc-Godard is reported to have said, "all you need to make a movie is a girl and a gun." Indeed, there are many films out there with girls and guns aplenty, but in the case of Rae Red's Babae at Baril, the film poses the question, "why does the girl need a gun in the first place?" In retrospect, I think it manages to find a satisfying answer to that question.

The film begins with depictions of violence, both subtle and overt. TV screens show gunfights by macho men. Crime infests the streets at every turn. But there are moments of personal violence as well, directed towards our protagonist (Janine Gutierrez). Her appearance is scrutinized. She is catcalled regularly. Her commute is nightmarish. These are all subtle instances of the violence society inflicts upon her.

When she comes across a gun, her whole demeanor changes. The gun is a symbol of power. There is, of course, something else about it that is hard to place at first. In the middle of what would have been the film's climactic moment, the story shifts. Upon first watch, I had difficulty placing this shift, but then everything clicks into place. The gun does not merely symbolize power, it also symbolizes violence, whether personal or systematic. Through this narrative segue, the film creates the stage on which the girl holds her gun. 

Thus the ending may not feel cathartic, but it actually is: it is a rejection of the system that holds everyone down, instead of giving in to the system that breeds violence whether for violence's sake or for something else. Though not perfect, Babae at Baril is a carefully crafted exercise about the systems that chain us every day.

An NPA member (Dionne Monsanto) is imprisoned after an operation that goes terribly wrong. She meets a soldier (Dionne Monsanto) who was part of the unit she was about to ambush. Both realize that they look exactly the same. Why is this so? What connects these two people? And can they find a common ground?

Kaaway sa Sulod's premise is interesting to say the least, but any brilliance behind the film is bogged down by an awkward edit and an overreliance on didactics. There's a subplot about possibly having the soldier infiltrate the NPA to assassinate a high ranking officer. This development would have opened up a lot of plotlines, but the movie doesn't really take this anywhere.

There is the intent to teach, perhaps, but all the talkiness makes the proceedings a little bit tedious. It's good that the film depicts the abuses committed towards leaders of progressive workers' organizations and the like (the film even has a scarily convincing stand in for a certain murderous general), but little is seen of the day to day struggle itself, which the aborted infiltration subplot could have addressed.

It's a good idea, boosted by an earnest performance from Monsanto, but the film's thesis wasn't communicated all too well.

We Want Short Shorts QCinema 2019 Short Shorts Reviews Edition 

Let me just preface this by saying this is a wonderfully weird batch of shorts.

Spid is a fantastic exercise in form, from its sound design to its fuzzy analog images. It's a typical covert assassination story, but it made up for that with all its inventiveness and weirdness.

Here, Here is sort of a slow burn, but its depiction of the degradation of a small town reflected in personal scales is pretty compelling. It's slow and probably not everyone's cup of tea, but it kind of works.

Judy Free also plays with form (appropriately, Glenn Barit also helped with the making of this film) in depicting the OFW(?) father of a young girl as a pink amorphous blob. It's carried by an exceptional performance from Miel Espinosa, it's heartfelt and it manages to say a lot in such a short time.

Excuse Me, Miss, Miss, Miss hinges its plot on an absurd premise, but the absurdity is justified: contractual work as it is now is an absurdity, so why not resort to absurd solutions? It's also quite hilarious, and I think audiences will like it.

Isang Daa't Isang Mariposa is about an elderly trans woman who yearns for love lost. It's an impressive idea, though I kinda wish they fleshed out the story a bit more.

and finally we have Tokwifi, whose pronounciation is actually closer to Tok-wee-fee. I was honestly expecting extrajudicial killings through the internet but what I got instead was pretty awesome nevertheless: an examination of colonialism, indigenous tribes and the patently wrong Western notion of what "civilized" and "uncivilized" is. Everyone loves; some people just love differently than others.

*

Finally, we have Christophe Honore's On a Magical Night (French title: Chambre 212), an examination of a long term relationship viewed through a magical realism-tinged, slightly metafictional way. Maria (Chiara Mastroianni) has had many affairs in the course of her 25 years of marriage - the film even starts with the end of one of those affairs. When her husband Richard (Benjamin Biolay, who also happens to be Mastroianni's ex husband) finally finds out, she leaves their shared house and sleeps at the hotel next door.  

The magic begins when various people show up at her apartment, trying to dissect the nature of Maria's relationship with her husband. This includes her former lovers, her husband's one great love, her deceased mother, and even a younger version of Richard himself. It's introspective, the proceedings playing out like an expanded, 90 minute long train of thought.

It reads like a play on film, and it's quite self-aware, funny and engaging, even though it can get quite confusing at times. The film examines the choices people make when they make a long term relationship, and why some people are meant to be with each other, even though it isn't that evident outwardly.

[PPP 2019] Circa, Pagbalik and Verdict capsule reviews

Okay, I've been more than a little late with these reviews. Better late than never, I guess.

Pagbalik is yet another OFW film, though it takes an interesting approach to its subject: its protagonist is someone deported thanks to Trumpian anti-immigration policies. After working for a long time abroad, our protagonist (Suzette Ranillo) finds herself returning to the family she left, a family that has virtually moved on without her. Most of the film is about these three characters trying to acclimate with each other's presence, a family reeling from its own newfound wholeness.

Though there are some okay dramatic turns, and the performances of Gloria Sevilla and Ranillo are quite decent, the overall package is quite amateurish. The film has a penchant for the fade to black transition, whose usage is quite inappropriate, the black and white treatment doesn't really contribute anything, and the plot is overall a mess. It screams "student film" from start to finish, and while I appreciate the thought behind it, it personally has no place in a nationwide festival (except if you're an actual student filmmaker).

There's something intoxicating about nostalgia, and in Adolfo Alix's Circa, there's a lot of it for Filipino film fans to enjoy: composed of anecdotes and vignettes about the good old days of Filipino cinema, the film is like an oral history of a time now gone.

But for a film touted as a tribute to or celebration of Philippine Cinema, there's a lot of looking back, but not a lot of looking forward. It even feels cynical by the end. All of the characters in this film, both young and old, hold little to no hope for the future. All of them are stuck in the past, unable to move on. Even the young filmmaker who perhaps represents the interests of contemporary cinema leans heavily on the past - in fact, his own storyline is unresolved at the end.

Perhaps that's the point, but I fear that if we last long enough to celebrate our second centennial, if this attitude stays, we'll still be looking back at the same golden ages and the same group of films that we look at today.

Verdict begs comparisons to other contemporary Filipino films: Last Supper no.3 (2009), which tried to shine a light on our convoluted legal system, or Joselito Altarejos' TPO (2016), a drama about a family that unravels thanks to a history of abuse. But Verdict takes those concepts and expands upon them, more concerned with the minutiae of legal procedure than depicting the loss of domesticity. What results is a remarkable film about failed social systems, as director Raymund Ribay Gutierrez channeling the themes and spirit of his mentor Brillante Mendoza. In a way, this is the best Mendoza film made in a long time, even though it's not made by Mendoza himself.

This crime procedural begins with a depiction of the crime itself: in seeing the reprehensible act laid bare, as if we were a witness to the crime, we are primed to see the case through. It's a clear cut example of domestic abuse, but then the film begins to show us that it's not as clear cut as it seems: there are several systems and hierarchies that muddle everything. It manifests as imbalances of class, in that justice can sometimes only be attained if you have enough money, or in imbalances of sex and gender, in that women are often hindered from attaining justice by sexist, patriarchal beliefs.

The film also addresses how we perceive and tackle justice as a whole: people are often guided to it by lawyers and other legal advisers, but most people, like the protagonists in this film, are often either illiterate or ignorant in the workings of the justice system, a system that may feel labyrinthine and indecipherable to the layman. It doesn't help that the system itself is bogged down in lots of paperwork and bureaucratic red tape. In their impatience, perhaps stemming from a desire for swift justice when justice is normally lumbering, the film leaves open the possibility of other, illegal, extrajudicial methods of getting even. I'm not entirely sure if it exists as an endorsement of such methods, or if it only raises the possibility of such recourses.