In the absence of a physical theater, filmmakers will find a way to explore their craft in creative ways. Moviegoing is a communal experience, and in this strange period of transition our communal spaces have moved to the virtual realm.
Gabi ng Himala, a live show honoring the legacy of Ishmael Bernal's most well-known film, is a fascinating experience. It deconstructs, reimagines and recontextualizes the film, examining its timeless lessons and reshaping it in interesting ways. Contemporary actors reinterpret some of the film's most pivotal scenes, the original cast and crew come together to talk about the film, and so on. But out of all the works of art presented on that night, Lav Diaz's Himala: Isang Dayalektika ng Ating Panahon stands out.
In Bernal's Himala, Elsa's confession to the multitude - that there are no miracles, that miracles come from our own selves - is an admission of hard truths. This truth is universal, applicable even in these dark times, and that's one of the points Diaz seems to be making. But with truth-telling comes truth-finding, and Diaz turns his camera's gaze outward, looking at us looking at the truth. A dialectic is the process of gleaning truth from noise; we are given ideas about the world at large and with those ideas, the responsibility to find out if they are true or not. Our reactions to finding out about these truths - stoicism, alarm, even disdain - are also reflections of our society in current times.
And the medium? Tablets, phones, laptop screens. As with many of his other films, Diaz posits the power of cinema as a vehicle of truth-telling, even without the constraints of time and place.
Antoinette Jadaone's Instagram live experiment (simply entitled, Love Team) reminded me of a most unusual thing: professional wrestling. In pro wrestling there is a concept called Kayfabe, described as the 'portrayal of staged events as true'. Life, pro wrestling and cinema share the same DNA, where the former is the real deal, and the latter two are sometimes fuzzy reinterpretations of that reality. In the end, all three embody the concept where, in true Shakespearean, dramaturgical fashion, "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."
Love Team takes advantage of the showbiz love team of John Lloyd Cruz and Bea Alonzo and several interactions the two of them had on each others' Instagram accounts before the show proper. We, the audience, are conditioned to think that this may actually be a real thing, even though if you look closely, it's obvious that this isn't quite real. The suspension of disbelief works in the same way (in my opinion) as when two wrestlers beat each other up, even though they're pulling their punches.
The actual performance, done as a seemingly impromptu Instagram live, feels like a genuine conversation because in many ways it is, delivered excellently by two actors who know each other in and out and whose chemistry is indelible. It's also a battle between pragmatism and optimism, between anxiety and hope, both relatable and emblematic of our hopes and fears.
It's interesting to see the reactions to this film, especially reactions from people who say that it seriously impacts their ability to discern the truth from these two from now on. In wrestling, that's called breaking kayfabe, and its a rare but notable occurrence. But personally, this film probably won't change what I think. This love team in itself was a creation, a Star Cinema fabrication, so why would I start or stop believing now? I once believed the Undertaker had supernatural powers, and learning that he's just a really tall guy didn't change my perception that much - because the illusion is alluring enough that I don't really care.
In my opinion it is essential to see Lolo Doc, the previous "monovlog" starring veteran actor Nanding Josef, before seeing its more popular sequel, Tanghalang Pilipino's Lola Doc, starring the one and only Nora Aunor. To be fair, the second fills in a lot of details, but a lot of additional information, mostly only implied by Aunor's conversation, is made more clear by the first presentation.
This is the story of two frontliners, perhaps previously in retirement, now forced to grapple with an uncertain feature and the increasing palpability of their own mortality. The usage of the online form - a Facebook Live in the first, a Zoom conversation in the second - is in itself a representation of the physical distance that separates health workers from the ones that they love, a separation that is necessary for the good of all.
The monologues feel like goodbyes, even if not explicitly stated, because the risk of death is real and the disease is relentless. Aunor's character tries to explain to her grandchildren how the disease works as only a doctor could, but such practical definitions are little to no consolation. These are sobering thoughts, but it is the doctor's vow to save lives, and save lives we shall, regardless of the cost.
The film impacts me in ways that are also personal - as a doctor myself, I've seen friends and colleagues catch the disease, and I've seen mentors and teachers succumb to it over the course of this pandemic. I grieve, as many of my colleagues grieve with me. The fight may be long and hard, but fight we must.
