Cinemalaya 2022: Shorts B

 

I've seen Si Oddie a total of three times now, and it gets me emotional every time I see it. If anything, it is a masterful feat of storytelling from, of all things, a student film. I look forward to the director's filmmaking future.

There's a lot about Duwa Duwa that could have been fleshed out more; the ending in particular feels truncated even though it technically ends in an adequate place. Despite that, in bright, saturated frames, it tells a heartwarming story of a mother and daughter reconnecting and learning each other's worth.

Overseas work often entails a level of emotional displacement that divides families as much as it does so in a physical sense. Distance details the aftermath of one's return from that work, and how people heal from the divide created from that displacement. It is a deeply personal work, yet one that funds resonance in anyone "distanced" from their loved ones.

I've already seen Gabriela Serrano's Dikit last year, but it is in a theater where its many intricate pieces lock into place for me: its split screen a manifestation of desire, of its central mythological creature, of woman and womanhood. It's an astonishing film that achieves its goals without uttering even a single word.

The other day I was going back to my apartment after a long day of work, I came across a senior colleague who I hadn't seen since the beginning of the pandemic. In our short elevator ride together, the first thing we shared were the colleagues we lost in the interim. See You, George! encapsulates that feeling of loss and regret, though personally the change of heart seen in the end could have been brought out more to the surface and is left quite ambiguous. It takes on a whole different meaning now that the elections are over.

And finally, Zig Dulay's Black Rainbow from the NCCA's Sinehalaga film festival is a little gem of a movie. It follows an Aeta child as he vies to get a scholarship and, ultimately, defend his tribe from outsiders who seek to claim their lands. It's lean yet effective storytelling that is achieved in the ways that only the best short films can achieve. 

Cinemalaya 2022: Ginhawa, 12 Weeks

 

We are a nation that loves boxing: people like Elorde and Pacquiao are household names, national icons. The country once stood silent every time the people's champ had a fight. Their battles become our battles. But for every Pacquiao that succeeds against all odds, thousands more fail. The sport of boxing is violence contained in the four corners of the ring, but as Christian Paolo Lat's Ginhawa shows, it spills out beyond those four corners, creating a monstrous machine that takes in idealistic young men and spits out broken bodies.

The film follows Anton (Andrew Ramsay), an aspiring boxer who meets tragedy early on in his career. This tragedy compels him to take his training seriously and he gains the attention of his brother's former trainer (Dido De La Paz). He makes steady progress but his perception of the boxing stable cracks little by little.

The official English translation of the title is Solace, meaning comfort or consolation especially during times of sadness. Although Anton meets trusted friends in his journey, he has to walk it mostly alone, even if it means leaving them behind. Beaten down by a hard life, Anton is meek, passive, making him prone to exploitation. While we see the idealized image of the poor man succeeding against all odds, that is the exception to the rule. Outside the ring, the rich take advantage of the poor, treating their boxers more like racehorses than people.

Yet these boxers endure all sorts of indignity to provide for themselves and their family. Ginhawa can also mean relief, and the promise of a comfortable life lures these people into a trap that they cannot easily escape. This oppressive, exploitative culture becomes a reflection of society at large, one that serves only those at the very top, or those who are lucky enough to escape the cycle.

Ginhawa's biggest flaw, ironically, is in how it decides to frame the actual boxing. Most of the fights are filmed in extreme closeup, the action often seen as a blur. But perhaps that is the point. This isn't really a story about boxing; it is a story of violence - of a sport built upon it and of people who inflict it on other people who do not know they have the capacity to fight back.

Alice (Max Eigenmann) works in a humanitarian NGO. She's split with her toxic boyfriend Ben (Vance Larena) when she finds out she's pregnant. 

The best character studies are immersive, letting you into the personal and emotional spaces of its main subject so profoundly that it feels uncomfortable, even voyeuristic. These films find their greatness in characters that feel human: messy, complicated and far from ideal. I feel 12 Weeks belongs in this category, perhaps the best example of its kind in recent memory.

Alice's journey through her pregnancy is complicated by her relationships with the people around her. Her relationship with her mother (Eigenmann's real life mother Bing Pimentel) is strained, as it turns out she wasn't in the picture in Alice's life, and her excessive doting now may be a way of trying to make up for that. As the film delicately peels off its layers, we find that mother and daughter might not be that different in terms of circumstance after all.

And then there is Alice's relationship with Ben. It is by far one of the most uncomfortable relationships I have seen on film, because it feels so real. Ben is not overtly violent (though there are hints peppered throughout the film), but we feel the violence he inflicts in other, subtler ways. Despite being rejected by Alice, he always finds ways to worm himself back into a relationship with her. He is manipulative, cunning, and he gets what he wants. He is a red flag made human. Alice should be avoiding the hell out of him, and she tries, but he always manages to make her come back to him like a moth to a flame.

12 Weeks recognizes how society shapes a woman's decisions, in how her pregnancy is portrayed, or in how the unborn fetus is seen by others. Her decisions are ultimately her own, but they are shaped by the people around her even if she notices or not. And even here, Alice is living in an ideal: while access to abortion in 12 Weeks is available to women like Alice, here our reality it is still very much illegal. In our reality Alice would have been forced to carry the baby to term regardless of what she wants.

The last few frames of 12 Weeks superficially feels disconnected from the rest of the film, but I see it as a symbol of anxieties passed on from generation to generation, from mothers to their daughters and granddaughters, a symbol of an uncertain future that doesn't feel like they had much choice in. It is a profound sense of loneliness that is exceedingly hard to articulate, but is conveyed rather masterfully here.

Cinemalaya 2022: Kaluskos, Batsoy, Angkas

 

Of all the newer filmmakers over at Vivamax, Roman Perez Jr. is probably one of the most interesting. His Vivamax filmography is characterized by having some fascinating concepts but middling execution. For his Cinemalaya entry Kaluskos, he might have brought along a little too much of that Vivamax filmmaking ethos with him, for better or worse.

Rebecca (or Rebekah if we are to follow the end credits) is in the midst of a separation from her philandering husband. She plans to take her daughter with her to Norway, but she notices a change of behavior in her child and suspects something strange is going on.

On the surface, Kaluskos is a middle of the pack horror film. In the midst of its fellow films at Cinemalaya it feels out of place. I would be the first to welcome more genre films over at Cinemalaya, but I feel over the years the "Cinemalaya film" has developed its own identity. To be honest Kaluskos would feel right at home at Vivamax, and given who is involved in the production I would not be surprised if it ultimately ends up on the streaming platform.

Kaluskos feels derivative because it totally is: it cribs a sequence from a well-known copypasta/reddit short story, and in terms of visuals and plot, it gains inspiration from a ton of horror films both here in Asia and in the west. That's not necessarily a bad thing, though one could argue a lot more could've been done with the material.

The problem with Kaluskos is mainly with its storytelling, both overall and also in its depiction of its female characters. All but one of the main characters of Kaluskos are women, and they are either complicit with monsters, treated as monsters, depicted as monsters, and become monsters. Rebecca's anxiety towards losing her husband and child is valid, but is all but dismissed until it manifests as violence. Her ex husband tries to defend his philandering by referring to his wife's toxicity, but we do not know if that was grounded or if he was just making excuses. The film even frames him as the most reasonable character in the film, in contrast to his ex-wife's increasingly degrading state of mind, perceived by him (and most of the other characters in the film) as hysteria.

That is not all, either: perhaps due to tight filming schedules, constraints in production or just filmmaking habits inherited from the insanely demanding need for content in contemporary Vivamax, the storytelling is inconsistent and downright lazy at times. At one point, Rebecca explains the nature of the movie's monster by reading an internet article, while the actual text of that article is flashed on the screen. For some reason, a woman manages to lift a dead body that weighs around the same as her inside a drum that is as high as her head. And, an attempt to humanize the husband and his paramour comes too little, too late. The spelling of the main character's name is even inconsistent, for crying out loud!

Kaluskos on the surface is a passable horror film buoyed by a noteworthy performance from Colleen Garcia, but falls apart the more you think about it.

I tend to give a lot of leeway to films on the indie festival circuit because of their tight production schedules. For example, 2016's Lando and Bugoy is not a sterling example of technical filmmaking, but it's still charming in its own way. What does disappoint me is if a film that isn't well made affects the message it wants to convey, form influencing content in the worst way.

Batsoy is an unfortunate example of that kind of film. Set during the 80's, in the twilight years of the Marcos dictatorship, Batsoy is about two boys who go around town trying to sell firewood. Through subsequent events we learn that the two have experienced heartbreaking loss, and circumstances beyond their control will make them face such loss again.

The film is infused with a deep sense of nostalgia (both bitter and sweet) to a life that no longer exists. Much like director Ronald Batallones' previews feature Excuse Me Po, I wonder how much of this is autobiographical, or at least inspired by his own childhood. The two actors are decent in their roles and the ending is rather emotional.

It is also prudent to question the object of the film's nostalgia. What is it exactly being nostalgic about? Is it simply the oblivious abandon of childhood (which just happened to occur during one of the darkest times in our history)? Or does it have nostalgia for that dark time in itself? I want to say it's the former, but the film isn't exactly doing its audience any favors.

To say that the film is technically rough is a massive understatement. Various edits linger for too long, the meandering camerawork (perhaps to emulate a curious bystander?) at times puts its subjects frustratingly out of frame, and various scenes don't feel fleshed out. Certain green screened moments don't line up with the continuity of the shots before it. Even the film's title sequence has effects that are improperly cropped to fill the entire frame.

That in itself could be chocked up to severe constraints in resources and time (the team consists only of barely more than a dozen people) but the unfortunate effect of that is most deeply felt in the ending. I'd like to believe that the filmmakers had the best intentions in depicting the tragedy of the last few sequences and conveying the message behind it, but because the filmmaking didn't prop it up well, it can be interpreted in a very different way.

Hudas (Joem Bascon) is a habal-habal driver plying the mountain roads every day. When he learns that his old friend Ditas (Meryll Soriano) has passed, he sets off to claim her body, with childhood friend Migs (Benjamin Alves) in tow. The problem: Ditas is a member of the New People's Army and is wanted by the military, which makes retrieving her body from an active combat zone exceedingly risky.

Before I start this review of Angkas, there is one thing worth mentioning: director Rain Yamson II is a frequent collaborator and DoP of Darryl Yap, who serves as one of the executive producers of this film. It's not made clear to how much he is involved in this film, if at all. If that in itself, given recent events, turns you off from watching the film, I'd completely understand. But given how it explores its subject matter, you'd think he was not involved in it at all. Besides, that is the least of the film's problems.

Angkas oscillates between realism and magic realism, at times to its detriment. While sometimes the use of magical realism punctuates certain scenes and makes them more poignant, it makes for some jarring shifts in tone in other scenes. Some scenes in the middle seem to drag on for far too long after it has made its emotional punch, to the point where it feels like padding.

And what of Ditas? The film doesn't demonize her or her cause, rather viewing it as a brave act done out of compassion and in defense of her countrymen. Through flashbacks, we hear in her own words her reasons for joining the movement. But given that these are words from the dead, that's also the thing: Angkas is a film viewed from the outside looking in, in people trying to understand why people choose armed struggle. The use of magical realism here gives Ditas her own voice, yes, but it is unclear if it should be read as Ditas' own words, or as the manifestation of Migs and Hudas' limited understanding of her. It is very clear that Migs and Hudas loved Ditas in their own way, whether they agreed with her or not. Perhaps it would have been better to flesh out Ditas' motivations a lot more, look deeper at the systemic root causes that compel people to go to the mountains, and to see what exactly Hudas and Migs thought about those motivations in hindsight, and the film certainly tries to do so, though I'm not sure if it's enough. 

Angkas is both a pleasant surprise and a minor disappointment. At its best the film hits some genuinely emotional notes and lovely moments. At its worst, it's plodding and full of filler. It certainly has a lot of potential and is an interesting film despite its flaws. 

Cinemalaya 2022: Retirada, Blue Room, The Baseball Player

 

Azon is a newly minted retiree. The sudden shift is a shock to her, even though she doesn't show it to her husband and daughter. A friend introduces her to bingo and she soon falls into a destructive spiral that threatens to destroy her and her family.

Films about senior citizen concerns are not unknown to Cinemalaya. Films like Bwakaw (2012), Kung Paano Hinihintay and Dapithapon (2018) and 1st Ko si 3rd (2014) masterfully articulate the loneliness and anxiety these people face during the twilight of their lives. Retirada is an imperfect, simple, human tale about how retirees are displaced from a life they've likely known all their lives.

While I appreciate its intentions, Retirada as a story is far too simple for its own good, perhaps better suited to the shorts format. It concerns itself with addiction, though it only lets its characters express the reasons for that addiction in a final act that seems rushed, and even then it doesn't feel as fleshed out as it should. And while bingo addiction definitely does exist, its perception as a relatively harmless parlor game (regardless of its true harm) affects the viewing experience, like Ellen Burstyn's segment from Requiem for a Dream but with M&Ms instead of Opiates. 

The material ultimately feels insufficient, despite committed performances from Peewee and Jerry O'Hara. Inadvertently the film ends up being a cautionary tale about the dangers of bingo, and if that idea sounds weird or silly to you, me too.

Blue Room begins with an impressive sequence that introduces four of its five protagonists: the members of a band named Rebel Rebel (the pronunciation matters) on their way to making a new album. However, various complications and a run-in with the law make this a night to remember in all the wrong ways. 

Blue Room is a thrilling, absorbing film, yet it is also the kind of film that will either win you over or not. I overall enjoyed and liked the experience - it is perhaps one of the best films in this batch of Cinemalaya - but I do recognize some problems in the way it is constructed.

Its middle class perspective feels reminiscent of films such as Ang Nawawala (2012) and The Animals (2012), though in this case this film's point is to point out how dysfunctional, lopsided and privilege-driven our justice system really is, even roping in real life events into the story (the film claims to be inspired by several true events.) The police are not depicted as a system with only a few bad apples - it is clearly evident that the fortuitous events of the film's climax happen only because of police acting for their own interests.

My main issue lies with the film's ending, and although I wish to believe in the film's sincerity, the montage of clips at the end can be read as an affirmation of the status quo and a performative and ultimately useless display of activism. One could argue that there's only so much our protagonists can do (they're not lawyers nor politicians), and that activism and social awareness take all manner of forms. I just wish it didn't have to happen at the expense of those without the privilege that our protagonists definitely have - in fact, we never see any of the people in some of those jail cells again, with only an arbitrary "they'll be taken care of" statement as to their fate. It also merits attention that at least one of the five protagonists were technically punishable for a crime, but ultimately gets off scot free. In addition, I felt especially uncomfortable when a Chinese man was portrayed as a stand in (and ultimately a scapegoat for anger) over his country's crimes, followed by the audience's seemingly positive response to this racist behavior. There's a botched attempt at portraying the privilege that foreign nationals have over normal citizens as well, though it ends up as an afterthought.

I totally understand why people would love or hate Blue Room. At the very least I hope it starts some conversations about how unfair our society can be to its most underserved citizens.

In his filmography Carlo Obispo seems to be occupied with young people living through historical events or socioeconomic milieus that are out of their own control: in Purok 7 (2013), the protagonists obliviously live their lives not knowing the tragedy that befell their loved ones; in Gasping for Air (a.k.a. 1-2-3, 2016) young girls get into sex work in order to survive. The Baseball Player, his latest film, is a simple yet tragic tale about a boy with dreams of playing in a professional baseball team, as conflict threaten to kill those dreams and harm everyone he loves.

The film recognizes the many nuances of the conflict in Mindanao, and how people are driven to protect their families and lands from increasing militarization and oppression. I heard that the filmmakers consulted with various people to make it work, and for at least that part, it shows.

What bothers me about this film, however, because of its choice to have its characters speak Tagalog and because of its casting, is that it feels slightly off. In the larger scheme of things this is a minor thing and excusable, given that the filmmakers did their research in all other aspects of the film, but it did impact my viewing experience a little bit. I'm curious if any fellow Muslim or Mindanawon audience members noticed, or if it was just me.

That said, Obispo finds emotional heft in various moments though the stirring music in some of those moments is often not necessary, as the characters speak for themselves. The Baseball Player ends in an anxious, uncertain place - one that might lead some to consider the material incomplete - but upon giving thought to it, it's correctly reflects the continuing anxieties of the peoples of Mindanao. There is no closure in this film because it doesn't exist in real life, and if the film chooses to end on that somber thought, I think it's a good choice.

Cinemalaya 2022: Shorts A, Bakit Di Mo Sabihin?, Kargo, Bula sa Langit

 

Cinemalaya 2022 Shorts A Short Shorts Reviews

I've said more than enough about Angpangabagat Nin Talakba Ha Likol and City of Flowers, both entries from QCinema 2021, both good in their own way, both well worth watching, both strong entries even in this new slate of films. I will note that these two films (especially, in my opinion, City of Flowers) shine the most on the big screen. 

Claudia Fernando's Roundtrip to Happiness shows two kids travelling the world in a time when international travel isn't exactly open, especially to those without the privilege and means to do so. The film is shot primarily through Google Earth (which makes me wonder whether the footage is subject to copyright or Fernando and her team has created a convincing facsimile of Street View.) However, in the middle of the short, Roundtrip to Happiness expands its scope into something bigger: as it leaves the Philippines and examines other countries, it examines the strange arbitrariness of mapmaking and history, of how small imperial nations conquer larger ones, and juxtaposes the scale of our small archipelago made vast and the ability (or impotence?) of people trying to control all of it.

In Mata Kang Busay, a fortune teller loses his powers and makes increasingly dire sacrifices to a mystic waterfall in order to regain his power. In terms of form I wish it could have done a bit more with its premise, and the soundtrack choices during the film's climax gives unnecessary pomp to what is happening on the screen. That said it does make a point about how much people are willing to give up for their own survival, something that we see in its worst form today.

Kwits starts out navigating the well-trodden but welcome trope of navigating the bureaucratic hell of government and how it can both work against what it was intended to do and how it can dehumanize people on both sides: those operating within the bureaucracy and those on the outside trying to engage with it. But then it shows how people can find humanity and compassion within these cold, unfeeling systems. It is perhaps my favorite (new) short from this lineup: well-directed, tonally consistent and cathartic.

Mga Handum Nga Nasulat sa Baras is a cute tale about three boys in a seaside village dealing with an educational system that has been profoundly transformed in pandemic times. It's relatively light (and it's also a rap musical!) so even if it was terrible (it isn't!) it's impossible to dislike.

Films about the deaf community aren't exactly new, even to Cinemalaya: Mike Sandejas' Dinig Sana Kita (2009) is a prominent example, and outside Cinemalaya we have Prime Cruz's Isa Pa, With Feelings. But those films examined a relationship where a hearing person tries to understand their deaf or hard of hearing partner. In Bakit Di Mo Sabihin? written by Flo Reyes, a CODA (child of deaf adults) both parties are deaf or deaf mute and that is a given. The film, first and foremost, is a romantic drama about two people engaged in a very dysfunctional relationship; their disabilities have little to do with their relationship dysfunctions, if at all.

While I expected a lighter film (I decided to come into this blind) what I got was a dead serious relationship drama more in the vein of Fifth Solomon's Dulo (2021) or Alessandra De Rossi's 12 (2017). Like those two films, this film can be as exhausting, in both good and bad ways. Migs (JC De Vera) is bound to conservative values and his idealized notion of a wife forgoing her job in order to take care of the children, even if it doesn't make financial sense. Nat (Janine Gutierrez) views marriage as a partnership where both parties are involved in child rearing, and that her personal dreams can coexist with raising a family. The film jumps back and forth in time, showing happier times for the couple while showing their current situation.

In films in this genre, the couple's incompatibility is made explicit; the bulk of the heavy lifting lies in making the audience believe that that relationship, however dysfunctional, was a meaningful one. It is a delicate tightrope act and the end result is either a very tedious film or something remarkable. While the film's fractured timeline certainly helps, I feel the melodramatic third act cheapens it by not giving the characters time to meaningfully confront each other and gain closure. For a film that asks us (and its characters) why won't you say it? It doesn't do that, even if the outpouring of emotions is one-sided.

There is a subplot to the film concerning a deaf child whom Migs wants to help (in a positive display of his character's tendency to want to 'fix' people.) It certainly reflects society's prejudices towards our deaf or mute brothers and sisters, especially society's unwillingness to see the potential in people. It ends in a frustratingly open ended manner, but I think it works: there is absolutely nothing wrong with seeing the potential in a stranger, or in your romantic partner, regardless of one's preconceptions about them.

There is always one film every other Cinemalaya (barring the lean years of 2015, 2020 and 2021) featuring (usually worn-down) protagonists (usually with a troubled past) going on a journey (metaphorical or literal) of self discovery. The results often vary, depending on how the story concludes: films like  Ronda (2014) end with violence or bleakness, films like Brutus (2008) end up being charming and profound, and films like Ang Katiwala (2012) devolve into an earnest, yet very silly, genre-mashed finale that on the whole takes itself way too seriously. TM Malones' Kargo, written by the late Joseph Israel Laban, is a great example of the last one.

Sara (Max Eigenmann) is a tough as nails cargo delivery driver whose work output is equaled only by her accident rate. She's plying the roads searching for the man (also a delivery driver) who killed her family in cold blood. During one such delivery run she comes across an orphaned girl (Myles Robles) and takes her in, eventually forming a relationship with her.

Most of Kargo is a relatively serious character study that takes quite a while to get off the ground (the previous paragraph takes up like 60 percent of the film). During this time. Sara endures all sorts of sexist behavior from fellow drivers and members of law enforcement. Although some of the scenes go nowhere, Max Eigenmann sells it nonetheless. The film slightly delves into the plight of typhoon survivors, but ultimately doesn't do much with it. While Malones' experience as a cinematographer contributes greatly to the film's visual look, he struggles to control the film's tone, eliciting horrified screams from the audience at inopportune moments.

Kargo will likely be remembered for its finale, which ends up being rather entertaining in its earnest silliness. If features 1) one of the slowest car chases in cinema history (the film even shows a signpost showing the speed limit of 20 kph, as if to lean into the joke) and 2) a character who not only teleports from one place to another, but also generates minions of his own as if he were a character from Mobile Legends (a similar discontinuity occurs in the recently concluded Obi Wan miniseries, so it happens to the best of us.)

While I wouldn't claim that sequence (or the movie as a whole) to be good in terms of form, it is very entertaining, perhaps the most entertaining full length I watched on day 1. Kargo may not necessarily make it to the top ranks of Cinemalaya history, but at the very least it is entertaining and memorable for its denouement.

There exists a paradox in films that depict soldiers viewed from the eyes of loved ones; in Jay Altarejos' Walang Kasarian ang Digmang Bayan (2020) Altarejos as a filmmaker tries to reconcile the military's role as a tool for state violence with his own experience with his late father, also a military man. In Sheenly Gener's debut film Bula sa Langit, there exists a similar paradox, in trying to acknowledge the role of soldiers as the arm of the state while also honoring and humanizing individual soldiers as exploited by the system that uses them for its own ends.

Bula sa Langit starts with a reunion: Wesley (Gio Gahol) reunites with his girlfriend Ritz after a tour in Marawi. He has trouble acclimating to civilian life, a pattern reminiscent of films like Kathryn Bigelows The Hurt Locker (2008) where because violence seeps deeply into a person's daily life as a soldier, they are unable to return to a life without it.

There are many little bits in the movie that add to a larger picture. Wesley's name comes from the actor Wesley Snipes, and many of Wesley's friends and family have misconceptions of soldiers borne from the same action films Snipes and his contemporaries starred in. They are unaware of the trauma and pain that comes with violence, in receiving it and inflicting it, regardless of whether it is for a righteous cause or not. While people argue for the existence of a "just war", Bula sa Langit notes that regardless of whether that war is justified or not, conflicts by themselves exact a heavy toll, both on the soldiers fighting these wars and on the civilians that end up as collateral damage.

This then leads us to the finale, which is the film's weakest part, influenced also by the paradox I mentioned earlier. What exactly is the film trying to say? It looks like it is trying to say or do two things at the same time, but whatever its point is, gets muddled. What does it say about the cycles of violence that soldiers are subjected to and the violence that they inflict? Perhaps a viewer may expect to find a cathartic moment where Wesley pours out his feelings and anxieties, but the film gives us no such thing.

Cinemalaya 2022: Leonor Will Never Die (opening film)

When I was a kid, my watching time of whatever cartoon or game show of the day would be interrupted by the occasional local action movie trailer. These cheaply made, often goofy trailers cast a spell on me, and watching some of these films later (thanks to VHS tapes rented by my father) just reinforced that spell. And I wasn't the only one: I remember many times when I would walk to the nearest sari-sari store and see a group of men, women and boys gathered around a TV screen showing a local film. There's a reason why our culture is so inspired by these films: why our comedy draws from Dolphy and his ilk, why our romantic films shape how we deal with our own love stories, and why our action films have influenced even our politics.

Leonor Will Never Die acknowledges that long-lasting influence, but also looks at the relationship between man and film in a broader sense, in that people use art and the creation of art to escape from their own problems and to find closure to those same problems. 

Leonor used to be a screenwriter, in contrast to the macho, testosterone infused genre she primarily worked in. She still is, technically, though she hasn't had enough luck getting a job lately. The Filipino action film isn't exactly thriving in this day and age, and the kinds of films Leonor used to write doesn't really exist anymore. At the same time, she struggles with personal loss and issues of her own. As she tries to find the ending to her story, Leonor does what she does partly out of a search for closure, but also out of a desire to correct past mistakes, and take back the family that she thinks she has lost.

Leonor's journey is also a dissection of authorship - as the metafictional third act asks us, who decides how narratives are constructed? Some narratives organically grow from the audience, but where does that leave the creator? And ultimately, how divorced should a finished film be from its creator once it is let loose into the world? Read in another way, Leonor takes control of her own story in a way few women are allowed to even now, creative visions often giving way to constraints of money, cinema politics, sexism, or a combination of the above.

The film also recognizes the power of film in its creation of communal spaces, whether it be overflowing crowds ready to watch the new Star Cinema rom com, or a bunch of people huddling around an Abenson's TV screen, or a row of otherwise distracted commuters on a provincial bus. Film connects us, restores us, heals us. That's a pretty nice sentiment to have, I think.

This review originally appeared on letterboxd and was rewritten for this blog.