MMFF 2025: Love You So Bad, Shake Rattle and Roll Evil Origins, Manila's Finest

 

I think Theodore Boborol's Vince and Kath and James (2016) is the prototypical love triangle teen romance of the past decade or so. Over time, a handful of films have been done to try to replicate or at least approximate its success. The latest effort is Mae Cruz-Alviar's Love You So Bad, starring PBB... throuple? double couple?? Will Ashley, Bianca De Vera and Dustin Yu. I have no idea who 2/3 of these people are outside of this film, so I'm went into this blind. And I'll be honest here: I didn't like it. Its plot is too messy and I found the whole thing kind of cringey. But I don't think it's bad per se, and I think that says more about me than the film itself, because I think I would've found parts of this entertaining ten years ago. Did I just grow out of it? Well, yes and no.

Vanna (De Vera) is a party girl (an understatement), but she does this because of a host of personal and family issues. She bonds and dates with LA (Yu), the popular star of the college swim team. Both Vanna and LA, self described "mistakes," bond over their brokenness in a wild montage of social media posts, partying and reckless abandon. But then, one day, LA ghosts her, leaving her confused. In order to get back at her boyfriend, she fake dates fellow classmate (and student council president) Vic (Ashley). But Vic has feelings for Vanna, and that feeling soon becomes mutual.

Though LA's romantic arc with Vanna feels undercooked, it's his overall character arc that's the most interesting to me. LA ghosted Vanna for a reason, and he's a far more interesting character to me than Vic, who comes off as scheming and territorial, but completely feckless in the face of his strict mother (Ana Abad Santos). LA's screen time with Vanna is limited aside from the flashback at the beginning, and balancing moments between the two suitors would have made things more fun. Ultimately the end effect on me was that I wasn't invested in either romantic outcome.

The film's central character, Vanna, is just as messy as the film she's in, and the film knows it - there's a scene in the end where Vanna remarks at the absurdity of two hot guys fighting over someone like her - but there's something interesting in how each of her potential boyfriends affects her. The straight-laced Vic arguably makes Vanna a better person, while LA unlocks her wild side. Unfortunately it doesn't follow through with that idea or what Vanna could've become by choosing either, both (spicy!) or neither, opting instead for an ending sequence that would not feel out of place as the finale of a reality show like The Bachelor.

This messiness can be somewhat entertaining, to the point where I wish I had more scenes with Vic and LA vying for Vanna's attention, but I often found myself rolling my eyes at this film more often than not. The younger audience with me loved whatever interactions there were, however. I suppose fans of the loveteams involved will enjoy this, though by the time of that finale I was completely checked out.

The latest entry in Regal Entertainment's Shake, Rattle and Roll series puts a clever spin on the anthology concept: three stories, each in different time periods, telling the story of the rise of an ancient evil and the people who try to fight against it.

The 1775 segment, about a spate of mysterious deaths in a convent, is setup for things to come, but is also a sort of thematic lynchpin for the rest of the film: the origins of evil aren't always because we fail to prevent it from happening, but sometimes because we let it happen thanks to our own inaction or for the sake of order. It's interesting that many of the nuns in this convent are products of our colonial past, figuratively born from that "sin," while the evil entity is a sort of super aswang, though the film doesn't go into depth in that regard.

The 2025 segment may not be as thematically deep as the previous segment, but it is by far the most entertaining, the one that stands alone the best, and the one that's most fun to watch. Personally, it's the best of the three segments in this film. It's a fun genre exercise employing many familiar tropes from the slasher genre, and is incredibly gory to boot. It also stars many popular young celebrities and personalities from various seasons of Pinoy Big Brother, so I guess there's a certain kick to knowing which of your favorites gets their brains smashed into chunks by the segment's masked antagonists.

The final segment in the year 2050 wraps up all the plot threads, and as such is the one that stands alone the least since it depends on lots of context from the previous two segments. It also depends on a lot of contrivances to conclude the story, because what do you mean the main antagonist of the film randomly shows up to the exact place where our protagonists are when he could have stayed in some remote castle in the mountains? It has some fun sequences but the proceedings lean more towards action. I'm not sure if this would've been better as a fleshed out, standalone film with different context and with more buildup towards its rushed conclusion, but it functions less as its own thing and more as a cap to a fairly okay entry to the Shake Rattle and Roll series.

I've been thinking about Manila's Finest recently, wondering how to express my thoughts on what it wants to say in my own words. To start, let us consider another film of the same name, William G. Mayo's Manila's Finest (2016). In that film, a bunch of Manila cops led by Jeric Raval fight against an international terrorist group that happened to come across Manila. It is your stock copaganda film divorced from reality, portraying policemen as supernatural heroes who beat up stock bad guys and keep us safe, it is a film that romanticizes them, and ignores its systemic rot and the many, many times they have upheld the whims of those in power instead of the people they are supposed to serve. 

Manila's Finest (2025) is nothing like that. It is a film not primarily about cops, but of memory, but we'll get to that later. Even the "good" cops in this film aren't angels - the supposed paragon of policemen, Homer Magtibay (Piolo Pascual) cheats on his wife with Janette (Jasmine Curtis). Homer and his fellow cops represent a kind of policing partially based on a model from the 1950s - where the cops assigned to the area were locals living in the same neighborhood, and the system existed as primarily a civilian institution rather than something controlled by the state. By the sixties, the patrol car system supplanted this, though not completely as in this case. And even then, both historically and in the film, abuses of power did still occur in some capacity. What then happens over the course of the film is a change from something that's not very good to something much, much worse.

The changes are subtle, insidious. Increasing political unrest was happening at around this time, and officers suddenly gained a level of immunity from personal responsibility, which fostered a culture of impunity. This is a horror film of sorts, an Evil Origins if you may, of the militarization of police leading up to Martial Law. It is a film that gets darker and darker as it goes, and its darkness lies in its inevitability, that unshakeable sense that all this relative idealism at the start is going to go to shit, and our only recourse is to remember so it doesn't happen again, even when, looking at how militarized the police became during the pandemic times and during the last administration, it definitely does happen again. It's fitting that its darkness is made complete when a character surnamed Liwanag is forced out of the service. 

In that sense, the film's central arc is not Homer's, but that of Billy Ojeda (Enrique Gil), a young police officer who tags along with Homer and his other cop buddies but soon falls under the influence of Danilo Abad (Cedric Juan), a member of the National Police Commission that represents everything that went wrong with the system. And by the end of the film, the only way to subsist in such a system is to reject it entirely, because everyone who survives to the end of the film is left damaged. Even Homer is affected: the one person who represented his conscience, his daughter Agnes (Ashtine Olviga), in his inaction to do anything meaningful to the system he works in, leaves. 

It's a solidly acted production with a strong cast, and Piolo Pascual mostly carries the film's biggest moments. The supporting cast, especially Cedric Juan, Romnick Sarmienta and Ashtine Olviga have great moments on screen, the latter especially in her scenes with Pascual. Raymond Red fills Manila's Finest with silences - the film's score is sparse, dotted only by the occasional vintage song. The film's pace is also slower than its MMFF brethren, though this slow burn ramps up at opportune moments.

It's kind of ballsy to release such a film at a time of festivity, but I think it's wise to remember even in these kinds of moments. As a whole, the film speaks to the power of remembering, because we are so easily led to forget. And it's not just about remembering us sliding into darkness, it's also about remembering what we had, and what we eventually could be.

MMFF 2025: Call Me Mother, Bar Boys: After School, UnMarry

 

I'm privileged to have been raised by many mothers. When my biological mother was out there working hard to help keep the family afloat, many others (titas, grandmothers and even otherwise complete strangers who became family) stepped up to the plate. True parenthood is not something merely passed on by blood, it is a constant and continuous decision to love someone beyond love, beyond what is normally expected.

For Twinkle (Vice Ganda), that is a responsibility that was thrust upon her, but one that she took willingly: after receiving a young baby from one of the beauty queens she was coaching, she decides to raise the child as her own. When she plans to move to Hong Kong to work at Disneyland, the fact that she hasn't officially adopted the now 10-year old Angelo (Lucas Andalio) becomes a problem. Now, she has to contact Angelo's bio mom, the popular and successful Mara (Nadine Lustre), in order to officially cement her status as Angelo's mother.

What I expected was something akin to a certain comedic sequence in the beginning of Jun Lana's Call Me Mother: a campy, humorous war of oneupsmanship where one party is clearly branded as the villainous biological mother and the other, the virtuous hardworking mother who truly loves her son. But Jun Lana takes a different path, as it recognizes both Mara and Twinkle's point of view. Mara's decision to initially let go of Angelo was one heavily influenced by parental and social pressures. (Interestingly, Angelo's dad is barely mentioned at all).

It also touches upon queer anxieties towards the right of parenthood, especially in a conservative society like ours. This topic has been explored before as well, with one of the earliest examples being Lino Brocka's Ang Tatay Kong Nanay (1978), where a gay beautician (Dolphy) takes care of the young son (Niño Muhlach) of the man he loves. In Call Me Mother, Twinkle fears the idea of her son being taken away - mostly due to Mara having the legal leverage over her status as an informal mother. But I wonder how much it's also because, through decades of internalization and conservative social conditioning, she thinks she's fighting against a society that doesn't want people like her to be parents in the first place. To be fair, in the film, Twinkle's social worker Mutya (Chanda Romero) never judges Twinkle for her sexual orientation during the adoption process, and neither does Mara. I suppose, with our society having changed in the interim since Ang Tatay Kong Nanay, it's not as big of a factor as before.

The film is carried by excellent performances from Nadine Lustre and Vice Ganda, both flexing their dramatic chops in a confrontation scene that trades the steady, one-take precision of last year's And the Breadwinner Is... with a raw, handheld scene fueled by sheer acting prowess. With a mix of trademark laughs and melodrama, it looks like the Jun Lana-Vice tandem is a solid one, and I look forward to future collaborations.

If the previous film asked us what it means to be a mother, this film, Kip Oebanda's followup to the 2017 hit Bar Boys, asks us: what does it mean to be a lawyer?

I've always found law school fascinating. While I don't think I have the chops for law, I enjoy the discussions and the use of sound logic to interpret cases and judgements. It's also a field of work that entails service, one that is often thankless. As someone in a similar field of work, I can relate to that.

Bar Boys: After School returns to our titular boys ten years after the events of the first film. Torran (Rocco Nacino) is now a law professor, who also makes principled stances in his law practice. Chris (Enzo Pineda) who spent the last film fighting for his girlfriend, is now seen separating from his now ex-wife. Erik (Carlo Aquino) spends his time working for a non-profit rights organization, while Josh (Kean Cipriano), now having retired after a successful acting career, finally takes up law for good. They're joined by Torran's students (Sassa Gurl, Therese Malvar and Will Ashley), each aiming to pass the bar exams after graduation.

With at least seven plot threads (one for each character, and that's not counting the film's central plot involving a labor dispute with farmers), the film often runs the risk of collapsing under its own weight. Some character stories are given only a little time in the story itself, or told only through side stories in the credits. Ultimately, the film is held together by a solid ensemble cast, with special mention to Odette Khan, who reprises her role as retired Associate Justice (and former professor) Hernandez. Hernandez ties all of the narrative threads together with her mentorship; in her last days, she embodies the consummate lawyer passing on her wisdom to the next generation.

The rest of the characters have their own time to shine (Will Ashley, Kean Cipriano, Rocco Nacino and the prolific Carlo Aquino are standouts) and make for some genuinely entertaining moments. It's talky most of the time, with some segments making it feel like you're in the law school classroom with them. While it may not be for everyone, for people like me who find legal discussions fascinating, these segments are scripted in a way that I personally found engrossing. For many who enjoyed the first film (including myself), it's just a treat to spend time with these characters again.

To be a lawyer is to be invisible, says Professor Hernandez in a heart to heart talk with Erik. It is inherent to their job. But while they may not be remembered by history, they are the ones that help make it. Throughout the film Torran's students (and Torran and co. themselves) ask themselves why they wanted to be lawyers in the first place, and if it was all worth it. Like all things, the practice of law is a conscious decision to live a life of service, and not a decision taken lightly. Most of it stems from a conscious, human desire to advocate for one's rights, which is baked into what it means to live in society at large.

Celine (Angelica Panganiban) and Ivan (Zanjoe Marudo) are having their marriages annulled. Not to each other, mind you: Celine's tired of her husband Stephen (Tom Rodriguez) and his narcissistic, controlling tendencies, while Ivan's wife Maya (Solenn Heusaff) wants to split with her husband for reasons that will soon become clear. After accidentally being scheduled with a lawyer appointment together, the two bond over their similar situation.

Jeffrey Jeturian's UnMarry details the long, costly and arduous process towards getting a marriage annulled in the Philippines, one of only two countries in the world where it is the only legal recourse to ending a marriage. It doesn't cast either party as particularly villainous,  painting them not as complete monsters, but as flawed, sometimes broken people. Refreshingly, it injects nuance into each character's motivations, and it's easy to understand why each character does the things that they do. It's all thanks to a snappy, solid script by Chris Martinez and Therese Cayaba and committed performances by both Panganiban and Marudo. 

The film is relatively safe and formulaic in terms of form and is shot pretty conventionally, but in familiar, romantic-melodramatic tropes it serves its purpose. During the film there were lots of murmurs in the engaged crowd about the annulment proceedings. As an informative guide to something that's not often discussed in Filipino society, having such a film in a wide reaching, national setting like the MMFF is something I can get behind.

Cinemalaya 2025: Bloom Where You Are Planted

 

These days I look at the news, see all the hopelessness going on in our state of affairs and my mind sometimes wanders. At times I wonder what we're even fighting for, if the people and institutions we're fighting against are so entrenched that it often feels hopeless. But there are people who fight anyway, even if it means their lives. 

Noni Abao's documentary detailing the lives of three activists and community organizers working with the people of Cagayan Valley could have been a run of the mill talking heads documentary, but Abao manages to capture human moments with his subjects and the people close to them. A lingering shot captures a brave but fragile front. When Amanda Echanis recites a poem about her slain father, we only hear her voice - pushing us to imagine what she is describing in her head, making the words more meaningful in turn. A former colleague of Randy Malayao tells stories of his friend, building up to actual footage of his death.

Bloom Where You Are Planted captures the meaning of struggle, that the meaning is the struggle - we fight not necessarily because we want to win, but because it's the right thing to do. A life given in tribute to the greater good is not a wasted life, but a  meaningful one, one that is well-lived.

Cinemalaya 2025: Child No. 82

 

Humans are social animals by nature and it's hardwired into our culture to seek people who we think can lead us. Humans used the concept of gods in order to bring sense to the world and our lives in general, and that idolatry and worship eventually extended to people, upon whose shoulders we confer some sort of authority. Over the centuries it has led us to make some horrible decisions whenever we pick the wrong ones. In the meantime, in the quest for gaining their own power, some people began to manufacture leaders for their own ends, even making an industry out of it. It makes a weird sort of logic: in a world where we commodify people, we also commodify the idea of leadership, where we manufacture idols of our own. Art and media over the ages - paintings, sculptures, and now films - have been created as a means of creating the manufactured image of such idols. If you've read some of the posts on my blog Present Confusion (or if this is the future and you've already read one of my books) I've written about this very phenomenon - about how some screen idols exploit the parasocial relationships we have with them to gain personal and political power and influence.

One of the most powerful weapons of the manufactured idol is the power of nostalgia, and in the beginning of Tim Rone Villanueva's Child No. 82, the faux trailer at the beginning of the movie is a clear callback to films like Fernando Poe Jr's Ang Panday (1980.) The character of Maximo "Boy Kana" Maniego, here played by Vhong Navarro, is a clear homage to FPJ, though his character also shares elements from other action stars turned politicians like former president Joseph Estrada. 

The elder Maximo is the subject of idolatry of his son Max (JM Ibarra), apparently one of many, who lives a humble life assisting his grandmother and mother with selling Inabel, a textile native to the Ilocos region. When the elder Maximo suddenly passes away, Max sets off to his wake in order to stake claim to his share of the inheritance and to say goodbye to the father that he never knew.

Max is not a perfect person, and throughout the film we see that he shares many similarities with his deceased father, to the point where it's clear he could be a successor to his reign. At the same time, Villanueva shows us the miniature ecosystem formed around an idol: fan clubs, family both included and estranged, staff, goons and hangers-on all wanting a piece of whatever Maximo had. Child No. 82 shares themes with other recent films like Antoinette Jadaone's Fan Girl (2020), which subsequently shares roots with the quintessential film about this form of idolatry, Lino Brocka's Bona (1980). But while Fan Girl focuses on the way fanaticism and blind worship leads to abuse, Child No. 82 dives deep into the process of creating an idol, and in turn, the process of creating fandoms. While Max waits for an opportunity to get close to his father, there are subtle and not-so-subtle signs that his dad was not a nice person, nor did he care about anyone else but himself.

There are a lot of meaningful choices throughout the film that add a metatextual layer to the film's themes: the film's protagonist is set in Ilocos, home to a political "idol" that brought the country to ruin, with a son following in his footsteps; Vhong Navarro in his heyday was a popular public figure who had his own share of controversies that negatively impacted his career for a long time (though some fans still stayed with him regardless), and the young JM Ibarra is the very popular finalist of a recent season of Pinoy Big Brother, a rookie celebrity already with a sizeable fanbase of his own.

While macho posturing and negative masculine energies contribute to Max's troubles, his fate as the second coming of his father is not sealed, and in Child No. 82 it is counteracted by the love and care his mother and grandmother give him. Rochelle Pangilinan's role is central to this; as Max's mother, she is conflicted about what happened in the past, and her desire to keep Max away from his father's influence fuels her decisions. While the ensemble cast is capable and well-rounded (including a hilarious turn from Irma Adlawan as Boy Kana's number one fan,) it's Pangilinan's performance that shines above the rest. On the other hand, the film also shows how this nurturing energy can be used by kingmakers to create idols of their own, embodied by Boy Kana's widow (Dexter Doria).

All this is wrapped in a package that is supremely entertaining and geared towards larger audiences outside of Cinemalaya. At times I even mused that this film would have felt right at home at something like the MMFF. It's filled with jokes and references that fans of old school Filipino fantasy works like Darna and Panday will love, and it cleverly integrates pixel art animated sequences near the end (perhaps as a way of dealing with budget constraints, but those sequences can cost a lot too).

As a people, our eternal search for a savior will always be part of our national history. It's baked into our popular culture at this point. The mid credits sequence of the film, obviously cribbed from the MCU, is used to show the cyclical nature of people like Boy Kana, old gods taking new forms.

Cinemalaya 2025: Warla

 

Stories featuring trans characters are not common in Cinemalaya, but there are some prominent examples. The strange thing about it is that both examples I'm familiar with happened in the same year. The most well-known is the late Eduardo Roy's Quick Change, whose general structure is not dissimilar to the film we'll be talking about today. The second one is the last segment in Adolfo Alix's Porno (2013), with its central character played by Angel Aquino. I have zero authority to speak on my trans brothers and sisters in terms of representation, though as someone who has viewed media depicting them over the years, I can make the following observation: on the surface it looks like we've been making strides towards better representation, but after watching Warla, I don't think we've changed enough. Corollary to that, I don't think we've significantly changed in the way we write about films with trans characters, though for both filmmaking and writing, trans filmmakers and critics are slowly and rightfully gaining visibility in that regard.

Warla is based on the real life criminal gang who kidnapped and extorted wealthy foreign nationals in order to fund their own gender affirming surgeries. Our POV character is Kitkat (Lance Reblando,) who comes to the gang after the death of her beloved mother figure. She finds family in these women as she is rejected by her own family: her traditionally macho father does not accept her identity, while her biological mother stays trapped in an abusive relationship with him. In the search for the love and support that has been denied her, Kitkat tries to cling to whoever is there for her, even if it's a criminal gang whose methods she does not necessarily agree with.

The ethos of Warla's gang is, in the midst of living in a world where your very personhood is denied, to return that same energy to that world, to deny it, to revolt. "Hindi tayo pinalaki ng sexbomb para bumawi," says Joice (Jervi "KaladKaren" Wrightson), the leader of the gang. When Barbie (Serena Magiliw) violently beats up one of their marks (Jacky Woo), she tells Kitkat that she's not doing this for revenge, though given what has happened to her previously (getting beat up by the potential stepfather of her child, for one) you get the feeling that might not be entirely the case.

That said, the presentation is a bit muddled, the film trying to get at a point that isn't as realized as it could be. The film takes a bit of time at the start by showing us slices of life from the Warla gang, but these sequences feel haphazard. By the third act the film feels like it's clumsily rushing towards a conclusion that needed some space to breathe. The film's thrust towards a certain social realist, melodramatic tone is not unfamiliar - I found myself remarking "yes, this is definitely a Cinemalaya film" - which will work for some, but is not really novel (though to be fair, I don't think it was aiming for that.)

There is no singular "trans experience," because the community is so varied, so diverse, that no singular film is representative of it. Perhaps that's why these stories flow and are structured so similarly - transformation as motivation, characters operating on the bounds of society and crossing it, the body as a canvas of suffering and/or death - they are attempts to articulate the collective pain of the community as a whole, which I guess is something shared and maybe even universal. Warla, and the canon of local trans cinema before it are noble attempts, even if they fall short. But in that regard, perhaps negotiating that articulation is better served by those within the community itself.

Cinemalaya 2025: Padamlagan

 

In Bicolano, the word padamlagan refers to the light (usually a gas lantern or gasera) that is left on before one sleeps. The light keeps vigil over the night, perhaps also serving as a signal for those who might want to come home in the dark. There is a sense of hope, however determined, for someone to come home, as long as the flame is kept burning.

Doring (Ely Buendia) keeps such a flame. He is a devotee of the Blessed Virgin of Peñafrancia, particularly a voyadores, tasked with delivering the Blessed Virgin from her shrine to the Naga Metropolitan Cathedral via a fluvial procession. Doring's relationship with his son Ivan (Esteban Mara) has been deteriorating. Ivan has started dabbling in activities that Doring does not understand. This comes to a head when, during the procession, the Colgante bridge overlooking a part of the river collapses, leading to the deaths of more than a hundred people. With Ivan missing in the aftermath of the tragedy, Doring sets out to search for his son.

Aside from its narrative sections, Padamlagan also intersperses several documentary-style interview segments, telling the story of the Colgante bridge - that it had apparently been rebuilt after a previous collapse, that it was ill-equipped to hold that many people, and that it would eventually be rebuilt again. Considering recent events where infrastructure projects were completed in substandard ways (or not even completed at all) because of massive internal corruption, it's kind of depressing to think that the same problems persist more than 50 years later. The bridge itself embodies a kind of cyclical regression towards tragedy because people forget, because people keep on making the same mistakes.

All this is gorgeously lensed by DP Steven Evangelio, who frames Doring amidst a sea of people, or trapped in hallways or corridors, bathed in dreamy light as if everything we're seeing is a memory. In its pace and in the way it executes its story, it shares a few similarities with fellow Cinemalaya batchmate Raging. But Padamlagan doesn't go much beyond that, and while Buendia is an okay actor, I don't think he manages to carry the film on his shoulders. I often found myself unable to get anything out of his performance other than his stoicism. Also, while the narrative pieces are there, tying these themes of searching to the larger political milieu feels lacking.

It still is a decent film all things considered, though in the end even with a seventy minute runtime it feels like there's a lot of fluff. I wonder if the film would be better served as a short instead.

Cinemalaya 2025: Paglilitis

Jonalyn (Rissey Reyes-Robinson) works as a virtual assistant. She's lying low for now, because in her previous job her boss (Leo Martinez) sexually harassed her. All she wants is to move on, but an offer from a hotshot lawyer (Eula Valdez) gives her a chance to air her story.

Paglilitis feels like the kind of film that one would figure out from the onset - at first glance it seems like Jonalyn will spend the rest of the film fighting a legal battle against her former boss and gain some justice from the whole thing. But thanks to twist in the middle of the film, the "trial" of Paglilitis ends up being one that's waged in different spaces - in the amorphous mass of opinions that is the internet, and in one's own mind. Soon we see that many of the people that advocated for Jonalyn do so out of self interest, or at least an ulterior motive: her mother initially objected to filing a case, but does so now in order to provide for her other daughter's education, while the lawyer who initially takes on Jonalyn's case does so in order to increase her visibility for political ends later on. Ultimately, the film's central theme seems to be that the most important person who can truly speak for you and your pain is yourself.

It's also pretty revealing that most of the people who use Jonalyn for their own ends are women themselves. One of the people who Jonalyn comes up against as the film moves towards its second half is her boss' wife (Jackie Lou Blanco), often depicted in prayer while wholly aware of her husband's behavior. Aside from the silence of victims, abuse is also perpetrated by the silence of the people who enable abusers.

Rissey Reyes-Robinson, who comes mainly from a theater background with a handful of film and TV credits, takes on her first lead role and she makes the most of it here. She adroitly embodies Jonalyn's journey from hesitant victim to determined, impassioned advocate. The adaptation of Paglilitis also trims some scenes from the original Palanca script, especially a part near the end, while still staying true to the original's intent.

Unfortunately, Paglilitis suffers from a slew of technical problems. The film's unpolish would make it right at home as a film in the earlier years of Cinemalaya, with sound problems (a certain spoken line, for example, remains undubbed), an edit that feels flat, and a general look to the film that makes it feel like a TV movie. There's definitely merit to it, but the end product is still pretty rough.

Cinemalaya 2025: Shorts A and B

 

It's time for Cinemalaya Short Shorts Reviews 2025 edition. This is a very short intro paragraph I have nothing more to say

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Out of all the shorts in this program, I've already seen four, but I've only written about one, in my list of favorite short films of 2024: Maria Estela Paiso's Kay Basta Angkarabo Yay Bagay Ibat Ha Langit, or Objects Do Not Randomly Fall From The Sky. This angry, formally creative short was great then and it's still great now.

On the other hand, I've seen Water Sports several times by now. Much like director Whammy Alcazaren's short Bold Eagle (2022) tackles the (honestly absurd but extremely serious) issue of global warming with even more absurdity. Can love stop the earth from burning to a crisp? Maybe not, but it's a bit comforting to have someone hold your hand as you watch the world die.

As part of deliberations for last year's SFFR awards, I've also seen Miguel Lorenzo Peralta's Please Keep This Copy. There are some similarities, at least in form, to Yoshinao Satoh's Papers (1991). But while papers uses its newspaper clippings to show how these paper records are inseparable from who we are, Please Keep This Copy, through its depiction of teaching materials like CAT (Citizen Army Training) rules and guidelines and other bureaucratic documents depicts how these things are embedded in high school life. It's arguable how successful it is from entrenching young people in bureaucratic and oppressive systems that they will experience in adulthood, as the shots of these papers are juxtaposed with an anxious, liberative energy that seeks to subvert what these papers represent.

And then there's Arvin Belarmino's Radikals. I've seen it a couple times now and I still can't wrap my head around it. It seems to be saying something about the nature of performance and how sometimes it leads into a new version of yourself? This is also a me problem, but I honestly found it too abstract for my own tastes.

Kung Tugnaw ang Kaidalman Kang Lawod touches on the same subject matter as Ryan Machado's Raging, but this time it's a horror film in both literal and figurative ways, the claustrophobic halls of a cargo vessel serving as a prison its protagonist cannot easily escape.

Hasang (Gills) is a very cute film that conjures an Animorphs cover in my dumb brain every time I remember it, but it's also a film about how the desire to transform into something else is an (absurd) expression of unfulfilled desires, and how sometimes returning to the past is unattainable due to how much things have changed.

Figat is very simple in terms of premise, but I have to admit it made me a bit emotional by the end. It's a loving tribute to our parents and grandparents. In their passing, they leave a little bit of themselves before they leave us, and sometimes that little part of themselves they leave behind includes a love and appreciation for one's own culture and traditions.

For many gamblers, the motivation for keeping the chase towards riches lies in false hopes, in the idea that a big win is just around the corner, when it's always the house that has the advantage. Ascension From the Office Cubicle takes a similar approach, with its many employees trapped in jobs that feel more like inescapable spirals, despite a repeated mantra that things are going to get better. The lottery that entices its central character feels like a way out, up the socioeconomic ladder into a better life, but like I said in the first sentence of this short review, in a system where those with capital have all the cards, the house has the advantage.

Insecurity, imposter syndrome, guilt from leaving people behind - they all take the form of something monstrous in I'm Best Left Inside My Head. In the course of a reunion at an orphanage, the claymated, offbeat, sometimes genuinely strange characters of this short act up in delightfully weird (and sometimes funny) ways.

And finally, it's kind of a relief that The Next 24 Hours was the last film I watched in its respective set that day, because, true to form for director Carl Papa, the subject is heavy and emotionally draining. And it should be, as it depicts a woman (Christela Marquez) trying to regain control of her life following a sexual assault, with the persistent vibration of her phone a constant reminder of her trauma. Like in Papa's earlier film Paglisan (2018), the main character's deteriorating mental state manifests when backgrounds start to dissolve into a hazy mush. In the meantime, she navigates cold and uncaring bureaucratic systems that are ill-designed to support her properly.

Cinemalaya 2025: Raging

 

I'll have to admit, it took a while for me to warm up to Ryan Machado's Raging. The film can be rather obscure, its long takes inviting the audience to glean meaning and emotion from its central character Eli (Elijah Canlas, arguably at the peak of his abilities here). You wonder at first what the source of his turmoil is, with Machado sprinkling little bits of it in some scenes but not outright revealing the details of the source of that turmoil.

Comparisons have been made between this film and Ryusuke Hamaguchi's Evil Does Not Exist, and the parallels are there: as much as nature's rules are embodied in the central character of Hamaguchi's film, the systematic destruction of Romblon mountainside forests is tied to Eli's physical and emotional defilement.

My initial reaction to the film was wondering why the film felt so restrained, so hesitant to show Eli's interiority, why even as it slowly zooms into him, we don't see that rage outright. But I eventually realized, in the context of such a taboo subject as Eli experienced, something that feels unimaginable to society at large, the restraint is exactly the point. The language of people (and lands) with no one to speak for them is silence itself.

Raging's finale hews from the tropes of ablution as a way of cleansing sin, of nature serving as a purifying force. Its not an easy film to parse, but it is rewarding when you peel its layers back.

Cinemalaya 2025: Republika ng Pipolipinas

 

Cora (played brilliantly by Geraldine Villamil) is a farmer. Her farming land was granted to her by the Comprehensive Agrarian Reform Program (CARP) but due to a bunch of technicalities, that same land was taken away from her. She's now being evicted from her home in order to turn it into a dumping ground for foreign trash. Along with a slew of other events (including the death of a beloved family member), Cora decides to secede from the Philippines and declare her own nation state - ang Republika ng Pipolipinas.

As Cora defends her new state from the government, her efforts start gaining attention from other people partially thanks to the power of social media. Micronations in general are created for many reasons, and for Cora and many like her, the republic is a way of political protest, one whose aims resonate with a bunch of people. Some of these people include an activist, a tour guide, and a SK (Sangguniang Kabataan) member who wants to use the position to gain more political power. They all have different ways of wanting to run this fledgling nation, ways that don't exactly jive with Cora's initial vision. As the film goes on, Cora takes a crash course in statecraft, something she has little experience in. A nation's strength is in its people, but it is in these same people where differences in opinion, corruption and unfettered ambition can tear it apart.

Director Renei Dimla treats Republika ng Pipolipinas as a satirical documentary or a mockumentary. On one hand this brings a little bit of levity into what is already a very serious topic. But on the other hand, this treatment isn't always maintained with the film giving way to a more traditional narrative format in some scenes, and the comedy might sometimes take away from the legitimate concerns brought up by Cora, especially during some scenes where it feels like she's the butt of the joke. 

But that same treatment also leads to a pretty interesting observation about Republika ng Pipolipinas, and that is in how it reflects on the idea of the filmmaker (specifically, the documentarian) with respect to politics, how much of their politics do they insert in their work, or should they stay neutral. The creation of art is influenced by the beliefs of those who make it, and subsequently, as audiences, we are influenced by our own beliefs when we witness it. For most of Republika ng Pipolipinas the documentarian is silently observing everything that happens, serving as our POV. A crucial scene near the end poses this question of neutrality and challenges it.

There's a scene in the beginning of the film when the filmmaker is asked about Cora and is says, and he refers to her republic as "imbentong bansa," an invented nation. But if we think of nations as institutions, aren't all nations imagined? Power and authority is contrived, true nationhood is built up by the people. And if these nations don't serve the people they claim to serve, what's the worth in having them at all?

Cinemalaya 2025: Open Endings

 

There's a trap hiding inside every great relationship: sometimes what you got from it was so good that you still want some of it in your life even when the relationship is over. That, however, has the unintended consequence of allowing buried feelings to resurface. If you're unable to let go of those feelings in the first place and truly move on, the trap is set.

Open Endings is an example of that trap in motion, existing in some way for each of its four protagonists: Charlie (Janella Salvador) starts the film with a break up, which causes all sorts of break-up related issues, but she soon has other buried feelings start to bubble up when her best friend (and ex) Hannah (Jasmine Curtis-Smith) announces something major and life-changing. The announcement shakes up the lives of Hannah and Charlie's other friends (and ex gfs) Mihan (Leanne Mamonong) and Kit (Klea Pineda). See, Mihan's still hung up on Hannah but can't bear to tell her her true feelings, while Charlie, in her post-breakup funk is beginning to catch feelings for Mihan. Kit, on the other hand, who has issues settling into a stable relationship, starts to catch feelings for Charlie.

The four protagonists of Open Endings navigate this relationship landscape in the larger context of a society that isn't quite ready to accept those relationships yet. Instead of making the reactions to their existence too much of a point, the film dwells instead on their lived experiences as regular people, often accomplished in their respective careers. Open Endings also shows the spectrum of ways people express their respective identities, not bound to any monolithic definition of a woman who loves women.

With a punchy and witty script that's never boring, an excellent ensemble that brings different things to the table and all around polish, there's much to like about the film. I can see a larger release for this after the festival concludes.

Cinemalaya 2025: Cinemartyrs

 

With respect to Sari Dalena's 2001 experimental documentary Memories of a Forgotten War, Cinemartyrs functions in many ways like how Les Blank's Burden of Dreams (1982) supplemented Herzog's Fitzcarraldo (1982). One film creates meaning from the production of the first, and something entirely new emerges. Both Cinemartyrs and Memories tackle  the same subject matter and themes, but the fictionalized reimagining of Cinemartyrs considers the point of view of the filmmaker: that is, what is the filmmaker's role in recreating forgotten histories?

The first act of Cinemartyrs starts off rough. Echoing the nostalgia of films like Raymond Red's Mga Rebeldeng May Kaso (2015), it portrays its filmmaker-protagonists as chain smoking, kooky eccentrics who shoot scenes with three different cameras just because. I'd be turned off by all the pretension and self absorption if it weren't all so tongue-in-cheek. This part also serves as necessary setup for what is to come, and as a point of contrast to the kinds of filmmakers our protagonists will eventually become. That said, this part still suffers from a certain messiness that doesn't do it any favors.

Still, once our protagonists reach Sulu to talk to the people there, Dalena comes across something magical. Her author avatar, Shirin (Nour Hooshmand) takes in the experience of lost histories as she learns of what happened in Patikul (and elsewhere in the island) during the Philippine-American War. It is the kind of moment that expands consciousness; Shirin's cognizance of these events broadens her earlier, Luzon centric perspective of 'freedom'. Filmmakers are history-makers as well - as storytellers throughout the ages have shared the experiences of those who came before them, filmmakers are simply the latest iteration of that. In the first half of the film, Shirin and her filmmaker colleagues watch Zamboanga (1937), which is an inaccurate and orientalist depiction of Mindanaoan culture. What Shirin (and by extension, Dalena) creates is something more accurate and respectful of the culture. Film and filmmaking, thus, is also a process of reclamation. 

It would be remiss not to mention the film's feminist point of view. Shirin deals with patriarchal society, regardless of where she is: for example, the committee that suggests she go to the south in the first place is composed entirely of men - one even condescendingly prescribes that she stay at home and make babies instead. The 'martyr' in Cinemartyrs entails a sacrifice of some kind, and indeed you do give something of yourself whenever you create something out of the void. Whenever a mother gives birth, she expends her own resources in the creation of that child. It is true not only scientifically but also spiritually -  the very act of giving birth transforms a mother in deeply profound ways.

And that leads into the one thing that I loved while watching Cinemartyrs. The film contains many cameos that in the grand scheme of things do not mean anything. But there is one particular 'cameo' that is the most important to the film's central thesis: Ligaya Fernando-Ambilangsa, a renowned dancer and artist whose trajectory mirrors Shirin's: after visiting Sulu and witnessing the pangalay dance, she dedicated the rest of her life to studying and teaching traditional dances like the pangalay. I've seen a pangalay once, during my cousin's pagkawin or wedding ceremony, and seeing that dance again took me back to memories I've long forgotten. Filmmakers (and other artists) transform and translate experiences into something beautiful. They are teachers who accumulate knowledge and share it to the next generation. They are keepers of history, and in showing clips from three women filmmakers whose legacies are all but forgotten, Dalena shows the power filmmakers have to keep the flames of seemingly lost memories burning.  

Cinemalaya 2025: Habang Nilalamon ng Hydra ang Kasaysayan

 

I think grief is the most palpable emotion one could feel emanating at the beginning of Dustin Celestino's Habang Nilalamon ng Hydra ang Kasaysayan. One does not have to be familiar with the real life parallels behind that grief, though it helps to understand it - the aftermath of the 2022 Philippine Presidential elections. During that period, people experienced hope again for the first time in a long while, and although the numbers showed that it was a long shot at best, there was definitely a feeling that victory was within reach.

The film then follows four characters navigating that grief, or for one of them, experiencing that grief second hand: Kiko (Jojit Lorenzo), a campaign strategist, Bea (Dolly De Leon), daughter of a desaparecido and a history professor, David (Zanjoe Marudo), Kiko's colleague and speechwriter for politicians, and Mela (Mylene Dizon), an election lawyer with dark family secrets. In the spirit of Celestino's Ang Duyan ng Magiting (2023) and following his theater roots, the film is divided into several vignettes, each constituting a small one act play, as these characters converse, process their grief, and move from one stage of grieving to another.

Denial hits mainly in the first half, in hesitant steps to present a speech of concession; depression in lonely silences and thoughts of retirement; bargaining in minimizing speech - "people aren't dying like in the previous administration," and anger in tense exchanges. Celestino is particularly skilled in creating this tension, using the most out of his characters to build it up until it bursts. Hydra is an actors' film, and it shows in the way the characters are lensed: mostly in tight closeups, as if the audience is invited to check for their subtle reactions to whatever's going on, while some shots are off center, as if the characters are leaning in to whisper something in our ear.

Hydra dissects different kinds of truth. The first is truth in the context of history. History itself is a monolith, but no one person can experience it in its entirety; every person experiences it in different ways. For some people, their personal histories constitute truths so horrible that there isn't a word for them. These experiences are so anomalous that people who experience a different facet of that same monolith cannot understand it. In one scene, the daughter of a notorious general responsible for the deaths of many people acknowledges the evil her father has created, but also acknowledges the fact that from him she has always experienced kindness. The way Celestino frames it is that this is not necessarily apologia for their crimes, but rather it is a way of explaining the other side's loyalty and fanaticism. 

There is also the question of whether the grief in the first part of the movie can be shared. Arguably a segment of the audience who will get to see this will experience a level of schadenfreude at the goings-on. It may be a factor into the decision to fictionalize the events and not make it a direct pseudo-documentary to what happened. The film's point of view, mostly from characters that are liberal and middle class, inadvertently exposes how insular that community can be to the realities of life outside that community.

But I do not think the film needs to appeal to a universal audience; to wit, it is not a work that necessarily seeks an audience, but it will find its audience nevertheless. The film's relative insularity reflects its own idea of history experienced differently by "our" people, and not experienced by others.

Regardless of what I feel about it, or whether I agree with the film or not, what got me at the end of Hydra is its idea about hope in a world where truth is continuously being co-opted, obscured, or even forgotten. Truth is our way of understanding the world; without it the world is an unknowable, chaotic place. Celestino uses Greek mythological figures to portray a world where we are left to the whims of capricious gods. But in such a world, as Hydra posits, it is folly to surrender to those whims. In such a world, the only recourse is to revolt, the only truth, defiance. One wonders if Celestino read Camus before making this film. 

Sinag Maynila 2025 Short Reviews: Jeongbu, Altar Boy, Maduwag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa, Selda Tres

 

Topel Lee's Jeongbu (Korean for 'mistress') begins innocently enough, with a family of three moving into a house in the mountains: Ethan (Aljur Abrenica) is mostly aloof, if not a little surly; his daughter Fiona (Rayantha Leigh) mostly keeps to herself, Ira (Ritz Azul) tries to hold up the household and take care of her sickly daughter. Their tranquil life is then disturbed by a mysterious supernatural presence that threatens to rip the family apart.

The film builds up slowly at first, with a few moments building up sufficient dread, letting the secluded mountain home do most of the horror heavy lifting. Aside from the usual jump scares, Lee uses smoke and camera angles to ramp up some of the horror. 

However, Jeongbu loses steam in its third act, where the central plot twist is largely derived from a certain horror film whose mere mention constitutes a spoiler, so I will not say it here. The reduced horror is mostly offset by a fantastic performance by Ritz Azul during this climactic moment, who has carried the film so far regardless. 

A handful of technical problems (a subtitle error switching the names of Fiona and a Korean character, for one), strange performances (Aljur looks constipated for most of the film, and aforementioned Korean character acts like Michael V doing a Korean impression), and some special effects that don't work out (the floating T-short being the worst) drag down what is already a middling at best horror film.

Serville Poblete's Altar Boy is one of a few films from this year's festival that's been around for a while now, but has only found its way into Philippine Cinemas this year. It's the first of two collaborations with lead actor (and childhood friend) Mark Bacolcol, who wrote and starred in Poblete's Lovely (2025).  

Altar Boy is best described as a coming of age slice of life about a young second-generation Filipino-Canadian immigrant (Bacolcol) who navigates teenage life while dealing with his religious and strict mother (Shai Barcia) and hardworking dad (Pablo Quiogue). Suffocated by the routine imposed on him by his mom, he does all sorts of things to break free from her control and his image as an altar boy. He joins the basketball club and tries (emphasis on tries) to make advances on his crush Summer (Emily Beattie).

Poblete perfectly captures the Filipino immigrant experience on a small budget; anyone who has an experience with the Filipino community in the Americas will likely identify with the film's little goings-on. As someone whose relatives lived in Toronto for a few decades, these social gatherings were nostalgic as most of these relatives are now gone.

What makes Altar Boy for me is its third act, where a major emotional moment upends the status quo and pushes its characters towards an uncertain, but hopeful, future. One wonders if this particular aspect of the story was autobiographical. 

Another film produced years prior (this time, in 2022) makes its way into Sinag Maynila, and this time, it comes from a director most of us are familiar with: Joel Lamangan. Madawag ang Landas Patungong Pag-Asa has plot elements that date the film's production to the immediate post-COVID era.

The film centers on Ara (Rita Daniela), a teacher with a mission. Ara's a new addition to the community of Pag-Asa, which has chugged along without a teacher after an encounter between soldiers and rebels years prior. Since then the Barangay Captain Indang (Dorothy Gilmore) has made herself a small industry using the kids as cheap labor as scholars for a cryptocurrency blockchain game that is totally not Axie Infinity.  Ara's attempts to reopen the school and get the kids to study again is fraught with difficulties, as Indang prevents the kids from returning to school, which would negatively impact her source of income. Daniela delivers a committed performance and the ensemble cast is capable as well.

To discuss the central theme of this film lies in a certain segment in the middle where Ara  admonishes a group of students who started a fight in the school playground. She tells the students that they shouldn't fight, but if there is someone who needs help, it is correct and just to fight for their sake.

The third act of the film completely throws this idea in the trash. When Ara needs help the most, thanks to revelations in the third act, no one steps up to help her. In fact, by the end, the film's primary antagonists roam free, apparently insulated from any sort of repercussion. The entire film thus feels pointless and a waste of time. Ultimately, passivity wins out - anyone in this film who takes any sort of action are either dead or in prison. And that's such a shame, because in terms of building a living community filled with interesting characters, this is one of Lamangan's better films, and knowing Lamangan's output as a director, he's capable of braver and more radical outcomes than than the lame duck that we got.

Julius (JM de Guzman) works as an assistant in a law office. His life is turned upside down when he is falsely accused of arson and stalking. While in prison, he is assisted by his influential brother Lando (Cesar Montano). He also befriends a trio of criminals in the cell he is assigned to, who were incarcerated for a robbery and murder that they swear they have not committed. Julius' own path towards his own freedom (and the truth) lead him to unexpected places.

Selda Tres joins a growing canon of contemporary legal dramas about justice and the legal system. It is made immediately clear that there are disparities in the ways people have access to justice; the first act of the film implies that people like Julius with the right connections has more pull compared to  people like his cellmates, whose opportunities for legal representation are limited. In fact, they likely would have kept on rotting in jail if not for Julius. The film also tackles the (ostensibly Filipino, but applicable to anyone) attitude of tolerating injustice as long as one is personally not affected by it, and the noble pursuit of truth above everything else.

That said, for a supposedly serious sounding concept, Selda Tres is surprisingly lighthearted and goofy; the trio's prior attempts at robbery are treated as a joke, while Julius' frequent pseudo romantic moments with lawyer Aika (Carla Abellana) are cute at best, or tend to get in the way of the story at worst. A sudden turn into action in the film's final stretch makes the proceedings even sillier, and certain concerns regarding admitting illegally procured evidence might suspend one's disbelief. I was relatively entertained, but it's definitely not going to be to everyone's taste.

A review of Sunshine (2025)

 

The OB admitting section was, and still is, one of the busiest parts of the hospital I worked in as an intern. It had been renovated prior to my first duty there, and it would be renovated once again after I'd left. Both of those renovations were done in part to address a persistent issue: that the place never runs out of patients. Every day, and especially on Mondays and Fridays, the admitting section would take in a significant number of expectant mothers with all sorts of conditions. Some would be giving birth for the first time. Some were veterans who were familiar to the staff working there, giving birth like clockwork every year. Some had serious conditions alongside their pregnancies that made giving birth extremely complicated, to the point where their current state posed a significant risk for death while giving birth. Nevertheless, they would slowly fill up the adjacent labor and delivery room, often two to three mothers to a stretcher. On very busy days the stretchers would run out, and the labor room would be filled with mothers settling down wherever they could, mostly on the cold, tiled floor.

I remembered those days in the admitting section when I saw Antoinette Jadaone's latest film, Sunshine, about a young gymnast (Maris Racal) who gets pregnant right before a very important event that might lead to the SEA games and eventually the Olympics. Sunshine doesn't have any qualms about making the decision as she immediately gets to work trying to find an abortifacient to terminate the unwanted pregnancy. This process is not made easy. Miggy (Elijah Canlas), the man who impregnated Sunshine, wants nothing to do with her after learning of her pregnancy. He doesn't even tell her to have an abortion directly, only saying that 'she knows what to do.' Getting medical help is equally difficult, and intersects gender with class: medical treatment is expensive (despite the fact that state sponsored healthcare should be financially accessible) and as abortion is still illegal in the Philippines, people resort to black markets to seek the care they need.

Once in a while, the OB admitting section will receive a patient who has lost her child. Miscarriages are common, and often they are spontaneous. Once, a mother of a stillborn child asked me if the cries in the next room were her child's, when I knew the infant was lying in a box, ready to be given to back to their parents. Then there are the other kinds of patients, ones who made a choice like Sunshine. They all had their reasons; this was a conscious and informed decision. After a while you know it when they come in. Sometimes the doctor would come in and tell them that what they did was illegal, some would even threaten to call the police. Nothing ever came of it; they were empty threats - often to 'scare' them into not making that decision again. It always made me uncomfortable.

To be born a woman is to be born into violence, into a world where the odds are stacked against you. Sunshine is not the first film to depict this violence - films like Rae Red's Babae at Baril (2019) and Jadaone's own Fan Girl (2020) are two examples. They show what a deeply patriarchal society creates: people like Miggy and a certain other character near the end, people who I interpreted as not exactly archetypal or allegorical towards the structures that created them, but as the inevitable products of it. But unlike those two films that I mentioned earlier, Sunshine feels far more indignant, full of anger that Fan Girl lacked, and drawing towards a different conclusion compared to Babae at Baril.

Quiapo has been a backdrop for many a Filipino film, and here it is a sanctuary of sorts. It is here where Sunshine goes to find the solution to her problems. Ironically draped in religious imagery, it both embodies the faith it represents (as a source of refuge for those who are in need) and as something that stands against its tenets.

Sunshine is a film about choices: the choice to live one's own dream, the choice to live freely as the best person you can be. Sunshine's sister Geleen (Jennica Garcia) coaches Sunshine as she practices in their shared home. Certain background elements (thanks to the film's excellent production design) hint that Geleen, too, was once an aspiring gymnast, whose dreams ended with a baby. If she had the choice, would she have lived a different life? It shows as well in Geleen's character, and Garcia gives a standout performance as her.

Finally, that idea of "refuge" may not refer to Quiapo, but something else entirely. Throughout the film there are many people, both seen and unseen, who help Sunshine in her quest. "Ipagdadasal ko kayo," a hilot tells Sunshine after they bring a child to the hospital who made the same choice. "Mag-ingat ka," another one tells Sunshine as she sets off. A sympathetic medical professional gives a knowing look. 

Every doctor has a story like it: in one of my last rotations at the labor room, a patient walked in nervously in the robe the hospital supplied her. It was a very busy day, and pregnant women overflowed on the stretchers and sat on the floor. She had no business being here: she looked no older than 14, and she should be going to school and playing with friends, not in the last stages of giving birth. Suffice it to say, this pregnancy was not her choice. If she had the choice like Sunshine did, would she be here? On the other hand, the point of the film for me is not whether one makes one choice over the other, but that people like Sunshine and that kid has the ability to choose in the first place.

Because the labor and delivery room should be semi-sterile, companions (in this case, the kid's very worried mother) are not allowed in. But the rest of the mothers in that labor room heard us taking the medical history and heard her story. The other expectant mothers gave the kid their blankets, talked to and comforted her, up until she gave birth. Everyone was that kid's mother that day. In a world where you are denied agency, where one is subjected to violence from birth, the least women can do is find refuge in each other.

Cinepanalo 2025: Reviews of all Seven Full Length Films

One year after the first Cinepanalo Film Fest graced our theaters, I'm still not completely over the fact that a grocery chain has decided to hold a film festival. Puregold doesn't exactly have cinemas attached to their stores, (for what it's worth, Gaisano does) so I'm not 100% sure what they were trying to go for with this. The fest's propensity to lean towards feel-good (though not necessarily "happy") stories has both upsides and downsides. The biggest downside probably has to be that it limits the kinds of stories that are put out there, acting as a kind of indirect curation. On the other hand, feel good stories don't necessarily mean they are escapist. It all depends on the skill of the filmmaker and how they tie that story into something worth thinking about.

There's a particular scene in Catsi Catalan's Fleeting that to me is the most memorable part of the film: after an extended meet cute, handsome resort owner JC (RK Bagatsing) opens up to his romantic interest/resort guest Gem (Janella Salvador) by taking her to his 'secret spot.' They sit together as they look at the sun sets on the sea and the sky, talking about dreams they keep close to their hearts: Gem wants to be a pilot because she associates it with happier times, while JC is a surfer, preferring to let the waves of life carry him along. It's a lovely metaphor for the two characters, all things considered - though the sea and the sky meet at the horizon, they never really touch, and while planes may leave for destinations far away, the surf always takes one back to the shore.

It's a straightforward, no-frills love story that could have benefitted from a little roughness, because most of the little details are smoothed out, with any conflicts nowhere to be found: JC is supposedly the black sheep of the family but we don't even see his relatives and there isn't a lot of pathos towards his situation, while Gem mostly breezes through her plans with nary a roadblock in sight. I wonder it it's partly because of that 'indirect curation' I talked about earlier. It wasn't a deal breaker for me, but the relative ease may turn off others.

Fleeting takes its time in transitory stillness, dwelling on a sense that the peace and serenity Gem and JC is experiencing is temporary - temporary to those who leave, and to those who are left behind. The tone reminds me a lot of Alec Figuracion's 2018 The Eternity Between Seconds, itself directly inspired by a slew of like films. In these kinds of films (at least for me), the best examples of these films have the setting pop out, and this is one of the few films that have a palpable feeling of Davao as a place - in this case, Mati, Davao Oriental, the City of Beautiful Bays.

Salum reminds me a lot of Allen Dizon's work with directors like Louie Ignacio, films that star downtrodden protagonists on the margins of society making a slew of bad decisions. Thankfully having the film be part of this festival and giving it a relatively feel-good resolution counteracts some of the misery. 

The film takes place somewhere in the Gigantes islands, home to an industry of shellfish divers. Kasko (Allen Dizon) is one such fisherman, who lives and dives with his daughter Arya (Christine Mary Demaisip). Kasko is attached to the child, and he knows that while he can provide for her, she has a better future with her mother who works as an OFW.

In his desperation to keep Arya, Kasko chases a pipe dream to the detriment of everything else. Notably, he commits actions that break the delicate balance between divers and shellfish, actions that gain the attention of authorities. Kasko's struggle is backgrounded by the larger issues at hand with regards to diving communities in Gigantes: the lopsided relationship between divers and middlemen, the delicate environmental tightrope that everyone tries to walk, the regulations that make these people comply with walking that tightrope. Kasko's past also alludes to the greater exploitation of fishermen who once owned land in these parts, as his father was scammed out of his land (and the rights of the surrounding waters) by businessmen.

While Salum leaves things open-ended, it leaves things in a relatively good place. It's not the most polished of films out there, but it works as a simple fable depicting our often complicated relationship with the sea.

Have you ever wondered why there are a disproportionate amount of supernatural beings that are female? There's a white lady, but not white gentlemen. While aswang can take male form, more often than not they are depicted as women in legends and popular culture. Why do we have a propensity to "irrationalize" women into something unnatural? And how many of these supernatural 'beings,' regardless of gender, were just eccentric or misunderstood people, ostracized for their quirks?

Tigkiliwi at first seems like a straight up horror film, but it soon transforms into heartwarming drama akin to Sockie Fernandez's Gulong (2007), about a boy whose quest to buy a bicycle leads to the betterment of the people in his community. Here, it's Tata (JP Larroder), who is recently bereaved. Now, it's only him and his sister Marlin (Gabby Padilla) living in their home after the death of their mother; while Marlin works to sustain her little brother, Tata can't help but befriend random people: Pansay (Ruby Ruiz), the old lady who Tata thinks is an aswang, a creepy guy who Tata invites under their bed (Jeffrey Jiruma) and a woman who lives inside the church (Sunshine Teodoro). Tata (and Marlin) soon learn that these people are misunderstood, and they begin to form a small found family centered around Pansay's old cocoa business.

It's heartwarming almost to a fault, and the characters are relatable and even lovable. The problem lies in the fact that the film's tone is all over the place, vacillating from dead serious to warm and fuzzy, and the third act feels rushed. Tata, the main driver of the film, fades into the background once he gets everyone together. Nevertheless,  Tigkiliwi means well, and the character's interactions with each other will draw one in. 

Have you ever seen a Mr. Beast video? They are, in a sense, freakish works of anti-art. Edited to create a lightning pace, full of transitions and flashing text to keep one occupied, it is a nightmare that is meant to draw in as many audience members as possible, and it has made Mr. Beast the man the biggest (and most probably richest) youtuber of all time. And based on interviews with the guy, living a life that is laser focused on making as much "content" (not art!) as possible, 24/7, 365 days a year is absolutely miserable. 

The first, languid half of Jill Singson Urdaneta's Co Love (stylized as CoxLove) shows two content creator couples whose lives revolve around creating inane content for every waking moment of their existence. Clyde (Jameson Blake) and Melody (Kira Balinger) split because Melody wants to vlog everything and Clyde wants some time with just the two of them, while Jared (KD Estrada) and Peach (Alexa Ilacad) have some creative differences with what they want to do with their content. It's all vapid bullshit in the end, made to serve their own personal interests as they use content creation as a means of financial freedom from their respective circumstances. They could just be doing something else, but the rewards are great, and it's not like some of them have a choice; Peach even says at one point she's too dumb to do anything else. While I appreciate the film trying to give dimension and nuance to the whole thing, it is absolutely soporific to someone who simply does not care about content creation. That person is me. This is more effective than a kilo of melatonin infused into my blood. 

That all changes near the second half, when Clyde and Jared make a YouTube channel of their own. They make the channel in the hopes that their positivity (and popularity through millions of views...???) will get them back together with their exes... like how does that work? At this point, if you haven't noticed the blatant bisexual lighting and the many, many implications throughout this part of the film, that there's more to Clyde and Jared going on than they're ready to admit to anyone, much less themselves. The film then begins to hook me in: Co Love now becomes a film about being true to one's self...

...is what I'm supposed to say, but the film's ending ruins the whole thing for me, ending in ambiguity that isn't even satisfying. The film's many signs pointing to Clyde and Jared having feelings for each other ends like a wet fart, with the duo raising a golden plaque in the air. Yup, no kissing, no hugging, no admission of love. Just two dudes hanging out with a golden plaque. For a film purportedly espousing the virtue of being true to one's self, it is not true to itself at all in the slightest. It's a staggering feat of cowardice so blatant that I wonder if it was mandated by outside forces, because no self-respecting filmmaker would do this unless they wanted to keep it PG. It is one of the worst and most disappointing experiences I've had in a theater all year.

Most boxing films follow the same formula; that of the down-on-his-luck loser who fights to support himself and go for glory against all odds. The crux lies in how well these films execute these concepts. Christian Lat in particular has made a boxing film before in 2022's Ginhawa, and Journeyman is Lat iterating on his idea of the boxing film. 

JC Santos plays Gelo, a talented and skilled boxer who is made to deliberately lose fights for money in order to provide for his sick daughter. I'm not familiar with the equivalent boxing term, but in professional wrestling such fighters are called jobbers. The endless string of losses gut Gelo's spirit, because he knows he can legitimately take on the people he fights and win. An opportunity to catch the eye of legendary boxer Gerry Peñalosa arrives, but he is conflicted: should he lose like he always does, his opportunity with Peñalosa might pass but he gets enough money to support his family during a financially delicate moment. If he wins, he doesn't get any dirty money and only the possibility of future financial reward. 

Like in Ginhawa, Journeyman sheds a light on how middlemen and unscrupulous actors move to exploit boxers and make them financially dependent on actions that will ruin them in the long run. Like any other form or labor, the body is made a commodity, but the damage to it is made visible and palpable. Of course, with that exploitation comes the degradation of one's spirit. To his handlers, Gelo is just a punching bag they can exploit, stringing him along with the promise of more money while probably taking in more for themselves. 

One's enjoyment of Journeyman hinges on whether you sympathize with the character or not, and that's very much dependent on the lead performance. Thankfully, JC Santos delivers one of the year's best, and by the end of this film, you will want this man to win.

Journeyman may be your standard boxing film, with tropes taken at times to extremes, but you know what they say about the man who practices one kick (or in this case, a punch) ten thousand times... This film is a knockout punch.

Ever since the pandemic, JP Habac has at times manipulated the cinematic form to tell deeply human stories. In Dito at Doon (2021), the growing emotional closeness of its two protagonists is shown by shooting them as if they were in the same room, despite them being separated by quarantine-induced distance, a technique that's been used in subsequent films in the pandemic cinema era. In Love You Long Time (2023), Habac uses a split screen that is almost, but not quite, aligned to show its time-displaced protagonists forming a connection. At first, his latest film Olsen's Day looks like a run of the mill, talky slice of life, but as we progress we find that it is actually JP Habac's most personal, intimate film. 

The film takes place in the course of one day: Olsen (Khalil Ramos) works as a researcher for a media outlet. He's tasked with bringing a box of tapes to someone in Manila. He's at a bit of an impasse in his life and career: he feels stagnant at work and is regularly berated by his boss, while at home he takes care of his mother who is suffering from dementia. Olsen's also tasked to have someone accompany him on this trip, and he picks up a father and son duo (Romnick Sarmienta and Xander Nuda). Slowly but surely, the two endear themselves to Olsen as they talk about life, death and everything in between.

Olsen's Day is talky, almost to a fault, as if its characters were speaking as an extension of the filmmaker's own musings. This is intentional. By the end, despite so much having been said, what hits hardest are the unspoken words that linger in conversations that will never be spoken. It's not easy to elaborate without spoiling the rest of the film, so I'll leave it there for now. It seems deceptively straightforward but Habac's clever insertion of certain elements from a certain fantastical genre elevate it.

Nitoy (Enzo Osorio) is trying out for the regional Sepak Takraw team, and he's doing it for a reason: he hates his dad Caloy (Acey Aguilar,) a serial adulterer who abused and abandoned Nitoy's mom to the point where she is now institutionalized. His latest shenanigan is bringing home Nitoy's half brother Ayong (Nicollo Castillo) to live with the family. Nitoy's potential inclusion into the team is a way for him to escape a family life that he doesn't want.

Caloy doesn't exactly look like he's taking the steps to reconcile. While he's remorseful, he doesn't even speak to his son until near the end of the film, and even then they don't hash it out. We don't even see Caloy visit his wife, it is only alluded to in dialogue. Under what we're used to with these kinds of stories, the film is a mess.

Instead, Mes de Guzman tries something different and takes another path. See, Nitoy and his family are part of the Isinay tribe, and the family matriarch (Ruby Ruiz) is seen by the non-tribal community as a crazy woman who is still adherent to the old ways. Caloy's 'redemption' entails, basically, a return to a simpler life with his people. During the third act of the film, Caloy undergoes a purification ritual in order to live a new life. That in itself is not a problem: the problem is that the film is trying to convince me that this is enough to forgive him, and I'm not sure that the film has convinced me.