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

*

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.