QCinema 2020: Genus, Pan (Lahi, Hayop)

Note: spoilers. 

Aristotle once wrote that what separates us from the animals is our ability to reason, in that our being rational is our defining quality, our final cause. In Lav Diaz's Genus, Pan, that idea is turned on its head, exploring all the different ways where that isn't necessarily true, either due to our ability to reason against reason, or our proclivity towards emotionality and chaos.

Genus, Pan is an expansion of Diaz's original short film Hugaw (2019), part of the omnibus film Lakbayan (2019). In my original review of that film, I read the film as a meditation on truth. This film expands on that in terms of both themes and scope: truth in the context of mythohistory (that is, history within myth) and systems of control, as well as how hierarchies and systems of control are corrupted by our irrationality and base desires.

The film starts out by following three mine workers who are returning home after undertaking dangerous work: Baldo (Nanding Josef), Paulo (Bart Guingona), and Andres (Don Melvin Boongaling). They traverse through the forest, exchanging stories and arguing. Not all three make it through, and we are left to question why. 

If we consider Clarence Tsui's reading of the short film as a retelling of the plight of revolutionary hero Andres Bonifacio, it also makes sense in this expanded version. The film's protagonist, Andres, shares the frustrations of his namesake; people close to him, including family, have been savaged by those in positions of power. The difference is, in this retelling, the Spanish have been replaced by other foreign powers alluded to in the dialogue: Chinese, Japanese and other foreign powers (as well as their Filipino collaborators) who use the island and its peoples for their own material gain. 

Diaz's fascination with history, myth and mythmaking continues here, as he explores the many different ways the population of Hugaw are controlled by both: the spread of a malicious rumor keeps prying eyes out of Hugaw, while characters create myths of their own to serve their own aims. Inggo (Joel Saracho) does this very thing in order to take revenge on Andres; and even Andres himself embellishes his story at first in order to cover his own tracks. It resonates with the past, given how certain historical events have been reframed or hidden (consider how Andres Bonifacio's own tragic end was obscured by the Americans until it was unearthed by Teodoro Agoncillo.) It resonates with contemporary events, especially given how our media is controlled and twisted through fear, creation of distrust in the fourth estate and in the proliferation of fake news.

And, we return to Aristotle's words and how Diaz uses that idea of man and animal to depict man's inhumanity towards man. Our animal side is seen in how we establish hierarchies, whether by choice or nature. For example, in the mines, the corporations control the bosses and supervisors, who control and exploit the workers. Even within smaller groups, this pecking order exists: Baldo, Paulo and Andres have established their own levels of control and power, with Andres at the bottom. Quite similarly, in the Philippine revolution, Bonifacio's group represented the masses, only to be controlled, co-opted and snuffed out by the elites under Aguinaldo's command. 

And both protagonist and presumed namesake meet their end not at the hand of foreign powers, but at the hand of their fellow countrymen, all because of a desire for control, for self-gain, and maybe even because the hierarchy (the way things are) commands it. There will always be predator and prey. Someone always has to be the first to partake in the day's kill. Either way, it leads to chaos, death and savagery. That mindset is felt ever more strongly today, and while Diaz doesn't make any direct attacks, there is a simmering sense of discontent in this film that he holds back, unlike his other recent films, such as Ang Panahon ng Halimaw (2018), that could barely keep it in.

It is when one looks to the past, acknowledges past mistakes (including one's own), and works to disable the systems that place us in strictly defined strata that we can transcend our animal nature. But unfortunately for Andres, such epiphanies come too late. Perhaps, it is not too late for us.

PPP 2020: Kintsugi

Note: Spoilers are present in this piece.

In Japanese aesthetics, the concept of Wabi-sabi (侘寂) finds beauty in imperfection, meaning in brokenness. These flaws are not hidden, but emphasized: in the pottery technique Kintsugi, as one character in Lawrence Fajardo's film of the same name states, these flaws are the main feature of the piece. Yet in doing so, Wabi-sabi also notes the nature of transience and impermanence, in that all things, eventually, are broken. While the concept behind Kintsugi the film is nothing new - romance stories in Japan have been tackled in local films such as Between Maybes (2019) and diaspora stories in Japan was the focus of Fajardo's own Imbisibol (2015) - there's something interesting behind the flaws of this imperfect film.

Dante (JC Santos) is a potter and craftsman working in Saga prefecture, a place in Japan known for its potters. Like most Filipinos working abroad, he does this to support his family. He meets and gets infatuated with Harue (Hiro Nishiuchi), an art teacher who returns to her family house after a stint in Tokyo.

The film is presented with muted colors, the camerawork often fixed. At times, domestic scenes are shot closer to the floor, similar to Ozu's famed 'tatami shots.' And it fits with the mundanity of the film's goings-on, as it depicts the normal lives of normal people.

The beginning of the film takes us through the motions of a romance that seems normal at first glance, but it takes an unexpected turn when Dante returns to the Philippines and reveals more about his background. He comes from a family of potters and artisans, just like Harue's family in Japan; but while Harue's family is thriving, Dante's family craft is in danger of shutting down, due to a number of external factors (lack of government support being one of them.) It's also shown that he's married, but his wife was involved in a tragic accident and has been unconscious for a long time. Him reaching out to Harue and falling in love with her now feels like an escape, a life with her signifying a sense of perfection that he is unable to reach in his own land. His personal struggle mirrors the struggles Filipinos feel when going to another country for a better life - where the same life back home offers little to no benefits.

And although a life abroad is something that Dante aspires to achieve, Harue doesn't exactly have it easy either in Japan. While she is a talented potter and artist, those talents are mostly set aside because she is a woman. She cannot inherit the family business by herself, and her future is set towards a path she doesn't necessarily like. And Harue's father, perhaps out of either deep seated prejudice towards gaijin or concern for his daughter, drives a wedge in Dante and Harue's plans.

In contrast to Kintsugi, where the flaws are seen, the troubles that beset Dante and Harue are flaws that are hidden beyond each others' sight, leading to misunderstanding and conflict. It's hard to find the beauty in them, if such beauty even exists. But here we arrive at the second meaning in Wabi-sabi - that acknowledgement of the transience of things. Filipinos can claim another place as home, but some roots will forever stay in home soil; love can grow and blossom, but that too cannot last. All things pass and fade away, and the tragedy and sad beauty of life is in accepting that this is the way things are.

PPP 2020: He Who Is Without Sin

 

Movies about the plasticity of truth have been around for a while now, perhaps most notably Akira Kurosawa's 1950 masterpiece Rashomon, which presented one story in four conflicting accounts. There are similarities in the structure of Rashomon with Jason Paul Laxamana's latest film, He Who Is Without Sin, but such similarities are superficial at best, and while Rashomon works well to confront the complexities of truth and truth-telling, He Who Is Without Sin fails in that same respect.

He Who is Without Sin tells the story of Martin (Elijah Canlas) a broadcast journalism student who gets to meet his idol Lawrence (Enzo Pineda), a popular TV broadcast reporter. The story of their meeting gets told thrice, with each iteration filled with even more lurid details. Additionally, we see that, for some reason, Canlas' character isn't exactly a reliable narrator of events.

The film then seems to follow the structure of Kurosawa's film, but adds a number of complications into the mix that don't exactly help the proceedings. Martin's characterization is erratic, the script giving him random insane outbursts that are inconsistent with his character. If one were to read He Who is Without Sin as a work talking about sexual assault and the reaction of survivors to said assault, the implications are unfortunate. It seems to give the impression that victims rationalize their abuse by telling themselves that they wanted it in the first place. Whether that subtext is intentional or not, we can't say for sure.

In terms of the story's perspective (i.e. from where the story is told), most of the perspectives seemingly come from Martin only; and even that is in doubt. The sources of all three stories feel like they are presented from nowhere in particular, though with a perceived bias towards Martin. The film's stories and truths are incommensurable, and while that in itself is not a bad thing, it's what happens in the ending that damns He Who is Without Sin.

In Rashomon, while the film fails to reconcile all four stories, there is a note of hope in the end. That film shows that while humans may believe in certain things to benefit their own self interest, that's not always true. He Who is Without Sin just ends abruptly and cynically, and that's a mistake that Laxamana has made before with films like Instalado (2017). He seems to be more interested in describing a problem, layering it with all sorts of complications, building a milieu around that and abandoning it all just before anything interesting really happens. The filmmaking to support the story just isn't there. It honestly feels like a first draft, which is a shame.

And there is, of course, the elephant in the room: Lawrence and Martin are both mediamen, both unlikeable, both presented as products of a systemic, all-consuming rot within media itself. Why would we trust the truth of these truth tellers if they are horrible people? While one can reason away such subtext as the actions of isolated individuals, unrepresentative of the whole, and as an appeal towards critical thinking, the timing is very suspect, considering that both actual fascists and fascist wannabes have been fostering distrust of media for a long time. Laxamana could have used the film as an appeal for responsible journalism, but he cowers from his own questions at the last minute.

QCinema 2020: QC Short Shorts Short Shorts Reviews

 

It's film festival season here in the Philippines, though it doesn't feel like it given the fact that we're still in the middle of a global pandemic. In this piece we talk about 15 short films about pandemic life in all its varying degrees of darkness and light.

We start off with Basurahan, depicting two decapitated heads as they rot inside a trash can. While the heads' presence may be interpreted literally, considering our current state as a nation where murder is normalized, figuratively it may refer to people like us, trapped in our own isolated little boxes, while our government and society at large pisses and vomits on us. Our only recourse, then, is to scream.

Bond's direct relation to pandemic life is tenuous at best, but its depiction of human relationships still counts, literalizing the idea that every separation is painful, composed of hundreds of smaller goodbyes that cut, and cut deep. In a time where people are separated, and not by choice, it's a poignant meditation on that idea.

Cats and Dogs' world is a silent world, without dissent, anger or rage. It seems like a peaceful world, but it's also a world without people, showing us that a world like that is empty and perhaps not worth living in.

Happy Life Pilipinas starts with inanities, recommendations for self improvement that work only for some, and other miscellaneous nonsense. It does nothing for its sleeping protagonist, whose boredom and ennui probably resonates with a lot of us right now.

Swipe Right is a small hopeful snippet that communicates that, even in a time where separation and distancing have been normalized, people still find ways to find each other.

The only documentary in this lineup, Sigpat sa Paglaum, tells the story of a mother who struggles to teach educational modules to her children (she has 9, of whom 8 are of school age.) It's a damning indictment of the Department of Education's policies (and by extension, the policies of the government itself) - full of big ideas with little to no thought to the socioeconomic minutiae and complexities involved with bringing those ideas to fruition.

Mga Filipinx sa Panahon ng Pandemix is filled with faces - often with mouths agape - contorted in confusion, anger, or sheer incredulity at the stupidity being uttered on screen. The usual suspects utter those words, (which is not particularly surprising) making the proceedings hilarious and also infuriating.

Namnama En Lolang is a dramatized (?) account of events that ring all too true in light of current events. It is one of two films that touch on the plight of health workers during this crisis, and it goes straight for the heartstrings.

Miss You, George is the second of those two aforementioned films, and this one hurts even more. Personally, it's my favorite film of all 15 shorts because of that personal resonance.

Island Symphony in C Major 19 fills its frames with images of travel, both in open, 'free' spaces (such as a beach or on provincial roads) and in the strange new reality of a pandemic-stricken cityscape. The irony lies in the fact that the former resides only in dreams and hopes, while the latter resides in the here and now.

Naraniag A Bulan tells a story of separation and yearning in the context of the pandemic. It's images are lush, but in terms of content it comes out a bit short compared to its fellow short films.

I've been told that the word Mingaw could either mean silence, or the act of missing someone. In this short film of the same name, both definitions apply: the peaceful silence of old age, the loneliness that comes when longing for separated loved ones.

One of the lightest entries in this batch of shorts is Pitch to the Stars, which is exactly what it sounds like. It's nothing too deep or profound, but it's very entertaining, and we could all use a bit of laughter right now.

Maski Papano is another whimsical, lighthearted short film about finding ourselves whenever we feel lost and alone. At least that's what I think about it. You could say I'm pulling stuff out my butt this time but who cares, I really enjoyed this one.

And finally, Mask4Mask is a short meditation on how people maintain relationships and form connections with each other during a time when the environment isn't exactly conducive to such activities, similar to Swipe Right from earlier.

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That's all for today, stay tuned for more articles coming soon.