Cinema One Originals 2017 | Call Me By Your Name

Luca Guadagnino's adaptation of Call Me By Your Name begins with the first movement of John Adams' Hallelujah Junction, and in many ways it summarizes the film to come: it starts out playfully as two pianos conversing with each other, both patterned by the rhythm and syllabism of the word Hallelujah, the first syllable uttered like a breath indrawn. These are words of celebration, almost of relief, at finding each other, these musical voices finding holy meaning within the words they utter. And they are juxtaposed with images of ancient statues, chiseled and perfect yet relegated to the past: a picture-perfect  distant memory, remembered yet again.

Love, meaning and memory form the center of the film, and the film as an adaptation of Andre Aciman's novel captures its essence without resorting to cheap theatrics.

Set in the balmy summer of 1983, in a Northern Italian town like any other, the film follows 17 year old Elio (Timothée Chalamet) as he grows attached to, and falls in love with, his father's research student Oliver (Armie Hammer). The film feels like a dreamy summer memory, its concerns removed from the rest of Italy, of Bettino Craxi and the Years of Lead. It's textured with piano music, from Bach to Ravel's Une barque sur l’océan to Ryuichi Sakamoto that evokes the calmness of the Italian countryside and the Meditteranean sea.

Call Me By Your Name finds meaning in meaning; meaning as in a definition, when the etymology of words are traced back to different roots - an apricot finds its meaning in the words precocious or  ripeness, both loaded with images of youth and sexual awakening - and meaning as in intention, finding meaning behind action and non-action, in words and in silences. "Your silence is killing me," Elio writes, frustrated. Most of the film's most important scenes eschew dialogue, inviting the audience to read what is going on. The film finds its place in that stage where potential lovers grope in the darkness, trying to feel out each other's intentions. This stage is captured and visualized in a scene where the two of them dance to Psychedelic Furs' Love My Way, each one awkwardly approaching each other but seemingly not mindful of each other's presence.

And the love that blossoms from this kind of relationship is a pure kind of love, a love that turns into something more powerful than one's self. Yet it is the kind of love that is destined to be doomed, the kind of love that goes hand in hand with heartbreak. It is the kind of love that destroys you. The film knows that state between loving and knowing that one is loved in return, and it finds the pain in knowing the finite nature of this love.

The film's tone plays on memory, and our conception of it, and how film itself can serve as an idealized memory. In the original novel, the events of Call Me By Your Name are recalled by an older Elio. A similar treatment was planned with James Ivory's original script, but Guadagnino removes it to give the film a sense of immediacy while still retaining the wistful nature of the novel's point of view. The images and visuals presented by the film seem too perfect, as if it were an ideal dream. And many love stories seem this way in hindsight, playing out in our heads like a music video, but never going beyond that, remaining as memories. And when we see Elio during the final scene, and Sufjan Stevens' Visions of Gideon comes on, we are asked: is it a video? We come to question what has come before, pinching ourselves out of our stupor (perhaps, like Elio) and convincing ourselves that this wasn't a dream, that this love was real.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | The Third Murder

At first glance, it seems that the case at the center of Hirokazu Kore-eda's The Third Murder is open and shut, showing the vicious murder of a factory president. The culprit, Misumi (Koji Yakusho), confesses immediately. Elite defense lawyer Shigemori (Masaharu Fukuyama) and his colleagues are assigned to the case. But nothing is as it seems, and the case gets even more complicated as Shigemori wades through a web of lies and deceit to get to the truth.

What began as a simple legal drama becomes something different in the hands of Kore-eda, known more for directing family dramas like Our Little Sister (2015) or After the Storm (2016). The Third Murder becomes a deft examination of the justice system and a critique of the death penalty, with Japan being one of a handful of countries that still practices it.

As the investigation continues, we see that Misumi's behavior is erratic, and he has a criminal history - he had been tried and convicted previously of murder, by Shigemori's father. Without his lawyers' knowledge, Misumi talks to a reporter about another possible angle behind the murder, and ultimately, when the case begins to involve the victim's daughter Sakie (Suzu Hirose), who had befriended Misumi, his actions begin to unravel the case and cast serious doubt as to his innocence or guilt. The trial and execution thus becomes the titular third murder.

In a film where the truth becomes abstruse and hidden behind deception, the film communicates the fact that truth and justice are not always congruent. Convenience and procedure supersede the truth, co-opting it for the sake of harmony. In the context of our society, justice is colored by the judgement of men. But who judges those who judge? 

The film dares us to find the truth in the words of its characters. Kore-eda films his subjects in extreme closeup, filling the frame with their faces, daring us to extract the truth from these characters' expressions. A striking scene near the end overlaps two faces on top of each other, reflecting one person's desire to connect with the other. Yet the truth still lingers out of reach, and in challenging us to find the truth from their faces, Kore-eda has made us into judges as well.

The film wouldn't have worked without excellent performances from the main cast. Masaharu Fukuyama and Koji Yakusho play so well against each other, and Suzu Hirose's Sakie is reserved yet full of hidden emotions bubbling just beneath the surface.

While unassuming on the surface and deliberately paced, The Third Murder is a tantalizing work, an impossible cipher that begs to be solved, another feather in the cap for one of Japan's most talented directors.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | On Body and Soul

Enyedi Ildiko's latest film, On Body and Soul (Testről és lélekről) finds love in the strangest of places: a slaughterhouse. Much of the first part of the film focuses on the slaughterhouse's daily activity, in all its bloody and gory detail. The act feels savage, but this act is practical - it's a means to produce food. Endre and Maria, two of the slaughterhouse's workers, form a bond after they realize they have been sharing the same dream of two deer in an icy forest. Endre is a partially disabled man with a distant demeanor; Maria is a socially awkward yet brilliant mind with an attention to detail and with tendencies both obsessive compulsive and neurodevelopmental in nature. They seem to build a deep emotional connection in their dream state, while struggling to build a similar connection in the waking world.

The Body-Soul dichotomy implied by the film's title is anything but subtle: there are images of brutality and empathy, the stark reality, absurdity and coldness of the real world and the pure, almost noble grace of the dream world. Ironically, it is in reality where absurd situations happen; take the slaughterhouse scenes for example, or the act of stealing sexual enhancers from cows, which catalyzes the film's narrative development. The film makes a case for a certain sense of spirituality and deep emotional connection that we have discarded and replaced with shallow connections and disposable relationships. The film asks us why it is so difficult to form a bond between people in a world like this, bound and constricted by shyness, social restrictions and decorum. These antipodes battle each other out, trying to find a balance of sorts between body and soul.

The film's treatment is gentle and deliberate. It starts off as a bit slow but builds up steadily as Endre and Maria begin to explore their true feelings and come to a realization about them. The last third of the film comes off as a little too melodramatic, but the ending, which can imply a number of different things, is interesting. It could be the final nail in the coffin, showing us the banality of bodily relationships. Or perhaps the film is making a case for symbiosis between body and soul, between idealism and reality, between that which is vulgar and sacred.

On Body and Soul is a fascinating, surreal romance with an arthouse sensibility. It demands patience and attention, but the results are pretty rewarding.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Before We Vanish

For a movie about an alien invasion with apocalyptic undertones, the aliens in Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Before We Vanish aren't in too much of a hurry to end humanity as we know it. The film's Japanese title, Sanposuru Shinryakusha (translated roughly as "invaders taking a stroll") reflects a film more concerned with examining humanity's foibles rather than delivering cheap thrills. It's something more uplifting from Kurosawa, something more like Journey to the Shore (2016) than Pulse (2001), even though the apocalyptic imagery is more in line with the latter.

The film follows two narrative threads: illustrator Narumi (Masami Nagasawa) is married to Shinji (Ryusei Matsuda), but the two of them aren't exactly on the best of terms. When Shinji mysteriously disappears then reappears with most of his memories gone, Narumi sees this as an opportunity to reconnect with her estranged husband, who is now mellower  and kinder compared to his older self. Meanwhile, a family is brutally murdered and the prime suspect, the family's daughter Akira, is missing. Jaded journalist Sakurai (Hiroki Hasegawa) is sent to investigate. Neither Narumi nor Sakurai know that the people that they meet are part of an alien invasion force, tasked with learning about humanity before exterminating everything on earth.

Before We Vanish examines the meaning behind human concepts. The aliens learn about humanity by absorbing and taking away a person's conception of things, like "family," "possessions" and so on. While it seems like a horrible thing having certain conceptions taken away from you, the effects are strangely liberating, even cathartic, to the 'victims.' Removing the conception of "work" turns a lecherous boss into a free spirited man; removing the conception of "family" removes a young woman's hangups about independence. The film questions the relevance of the importance we place onto social constructs, and how we restrict ourselves by doing so.

At its very heart, however, Before We Vanish is a love story, and it is the concept of "love," and the lack or abundance of it, that drives the film. It's almost strange to call this a romantic comedy, but in many ways it is, and instead of resorting to cheap theatrics, it moves towards a deeply emotional ending. A love story such as this can be trite in the hands of a lesser director, but Kurosawa handles it well, creating something that can be deeply resonant. 

The film suffers from a couple of flaws: it juggles its tone from time to time, and it may not prove to be effective from everyone. Also, the plot gets rather predictable, and attentive viewers may figure out how the story plays out from certain scenes from the middle of the film. But despite that, Before We Vanish transcends these flaws. It is a powerful film that champions love in all its myriad forms and its power to redeem and transform.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Historiographika Errata

We end our Cinema One Originals competition film coverage with Richard Somes' Historiographika Errata. From the title itself it's evident that historical accuracy isn't one of the film's aims - instead, it shows absurdity, humor and irony through historical characters in four distinct parts. 

The first and second parts deal with Jose Rizal and Andres Bonifacio, (Joem Bascon and Jett Pangan) respectively. The depictions of the two characters are far from the idealized image we see in other popular media and in recent films. Rizal is depressed and indecisive, a bit of a slacker, and prone to suicidal thought. Bonifacio and his gang of cross-dressing Katipunan members look like something out of the Three Stooges, or a Dolphy comedy. These two scenes are played out for laughs, attributing these venerated men's greatest achievements to quirks and chance. Overall the tone is silly and lighthearted using humor as a means of deconstruction.

The third part deals with a former compatriot of Macario Sakay who lets himself be used by American forces to root out and pacify remaining rebel forces. Though the first half of this segment has its share of darkly comic moments, the tone gets real serious quick. I felt that it was the weakest of all the segments. Thematically it shares some ideas with the last part in that Filipinos will do anything - even betray the one who saved their life - to survive.

The fourth and final part takes place during the Japanese occupation. Food shortages and famine are widespread. To survive, Librada (Nathalie Hart) has worked out a deal with two men: they can have sex with her in exchange for food. Hart is adroit in her role, and her performance is perhaps one of the meatiest and best performances in the entire film. The story is actually about the beginnings of the Makapili - hated Filipino collaborators during the occupation who were treated later as traitors. Again, this part communicates the notion of being able to do anything in desperate times - even betray one's own beliefs. This part draws its irony from the fact that we are rooting for characters that we should historically despise, providing us with a story told from their perspective.

The film's four parts struggle to gel together to form a thematic whole; the first and second parts seem to warn against lionizing heroes, the third and fourth parts reflect how damaged a people we have become because we have never known true freedom.

Ultimately I'm on the fence with Historiographika Errata. It feels a little disjointed, and the film's message gets a little muddled at times. Yet the film is decently acted, gorgeously lensed, the production design impeccable, the color vibrant and interesting. Judged separately, the fourth part stands out as the most robust and solid part of the film. But I think there's enough interesting stuff in the other parts to warrant a look.

***

That ends my coverage of this year's Cinema One Originals competition films. I sadly won't be able to watch this year's shorts due to time constraints. After a short break on Saturday, we'll take a small peek into some of the festival's international offerings.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Throwback Today: second chances and the iMac that leapt through time

Life for Primo (Carlo Aquino) isn't peachy in the slightest. He's struggling to get a job, he's about to be evicted from his house, and the love of his life Andie (Empress Schuck) is getting married to another guy. When he unearths his old iMac from 2005, he discovers he can talk to his 2005 self. He then hatches a plan to change the past and save his future before it's too late.

Part science fiction, part magical realism, part time travel story, Throwback Today's story draws from a plethora of similarly themed stories. But Throwback Today makes its own little spin on this particular type of story that I personally enjoyed.

The film takes us through Primo's past and the mistakes he made leading to his current state. While the time manipulation plays itself out, it curiously makes an unexpected turn that brings into question the ethics of time manipulation itself. It's an interesting point where the film reflects on the nature of its own genre, and it's executed on a degree of reflexivity that I didn't expect.

It's a small scale, low key story - no one's saving the world or defeating an alien invasion.  It's characteristic of some Japanese science fiction stories like Katsuyuki Motohiro's Summer Time Machine Blues (2005), where a group of students use a time machine to fix a broken air conditioner remote control. The stakes aren't particularly high, and in that sense I can get behind the apparent banality of Primo's eventual catharsis. In fact, I was pretty invested in what would happen to him from the start, thanks to the film borrowing some of the trappings of a romantic comedy and applying them to Primo's journey.

Perhaps the film could have taken its time developing the character of Macy (Annicka Dolonius,) who finds her life entangled with Primo's own. There are some scenes where the film could have eased better into an ending that could've more effectively tied its various frayed plot threads together.  Sometimes the film makes it challenging to figure out when specific scenes are happening in the timeline. But all in all, I found Throwback Today surprisingly enjoyable. It's a worthy addition to an already strong Cinema One Originals lineup.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Haunted: A Last Visit to the Red House's true to life story is more horrifying than any ghost

There's a red house in Pampanga that's the subject of ghostly rumors, and from the start of Haunted: A Last Visit to the Red House, it looks as if we've been thrown into a Koji Shiraishi film or a found footage movie. But the movie eventually shows its true colors - the ghosts in Haunted are the ghosts of the past, and the resulting story is something far more horrifying.

In 1944, the small village of Mapaniqui, Candaba, Pampanga, was raided by the Japanese. The men were tortured and executed, the houses burned, and the women - some even as young as thirteen, were brought to the Red House to be raped. The film cleverly introduces us to these women, now elderly grandmothers, during the "horror" segment.

The Malaya Lolas, an organization of comfort women and other sexual victims of World War II, begin to relate the story of the Rape of Mapaniqui, in heart-wrenching detail. The film explores the creation of the Malaya Lolas, their eventual struggle to get their stories heard and their journey towards reparation and justice. Aside from stories, there are songs of that day, songs that lament their suffering, songs that wish for these atrocities to never happen again.

Another factor to this tale is the fact that as the grandmothers of Mapaniqui grow old and die out, their organization - and their cause - is in danger of dying out as well, doomed to become a mere footnote in history. These stories will disappear unless the story is passed on, unless people never forget. And it's this notion that transforms Haunted into a critique of the documentary form itself as a tool to set memory in stone.

The last part of the film ends with the titular final visit to the Red House, where the original image of the place as a haunted house is recontextualized with what we have just learned. What then follows is a scene where the filmmakers contemplate on what just happened. They wonder about the veracity of the stories they've just heard, and note their repetitiveness. If you've read my previous review of Bundok Banahaw, it's usually wiser to avoid opinion and judgement and let the subjects of the documentary speak for themselves. Thus, this last scene may feel like it is unnecessary and undermines the subject a bit, but it does add a curious metatextual layer to the whole documentary.

Consider this: it's unclear whether the filmmakers were aware or not that they too were complicit in the creation of the repetition that they noted. These women have been visited time and again and were made to relive very painful memories for the sake of keeping these stories alive for the sake of justice. After all, stories told over and over again tend to coalesce, searing themselves in collective memory, so that the shared experience becomes relatively homogenous. If you note the way the documentary was edited, these stories seamlessly edit together, details from ones story flowing into the other, lolas finishing each other's sentences. It's an ordeal they've had to bear the burden of together for decades, a burden they will probably bear until the end of their lives. 

To relive a harrowing experience again and again is but one horror; to know that the chance to receive true justice and reparations is fleeting and perhaps unattainable is another. And as time ravages both man and memory, in a dilapidated old house in Pampanga, ghosts both supernatural and of another kind roam free.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Moral (Restored and Uncut Version)

The late Marilou Diaz-Abaya is a name fondly remembered in Philippine Cinema: even someone barely cognizant of Filipino cinema in the late nineties and early 2000's should recognize some of her best known later works such as Jose Rizal (1998) or Muro Ami (1999). For the most part her films addressed social issues while still appealing to a mass audience.

Today we'll be talking about one of Diaz-Abaya's earliest films, Moral. It's her second collaboration with screenwriter Ricky Lee after 1980's Brutal. Moral was followed up by another classic film, Karnal (1983), which won best film in that year's MMFF. A sequel to Moral, Noon at Ngayon (2003), was released in the twilight of her career.

Moral begins with a wedding, which should be a happy occasion for all, but the film immediately cuts to gossip, criticizing the wedding and placing bets on the eventual separation. It's a reflection of the relatively conservative yet malicious societal viewpoint at the time (which, at least in some part persists even today.) But the film turns the tables on that by showing Joey (Lorna Tolentino,) who struts in and doesn't care what other people think. It's clear that this movie isn't going to play by the rules.

Over the course of a number of years, Moral examines Joey's life and the lives of her friends: Maritess (Anna Marin), the bride in the opening scene, is a talented writer stripped of her agency and turned by her husband into a baby making factory; Sylvia (Sandy Andolong) is a single mother who is still in love with her ex-husband, and Kathy (Gina Alajar) is an aspiring singer who wants to rise to the top.

The film asks us through its title song: "ganyan na ba ang makabagong moral?" (Is this the new morality?) And in the seventies and eighties, the role of women in contemporary society was changing fast. The ideals of the women's liberation movement in the sixties and seventies were slowly trickling into the rest of the world. Women were taking a stand on equality, reproductive rights, and they were breaking stereotypes and conservative thought. Men and women both were exploring their sexuality in new and progressive ways. As these ideals still have a way to go in  contemporary Philippine society, Moral's subject matter is still timely to this day. It's also notable that this female viewpoint was appropriately helmed by a woman - compare it to Hollywood of that era,  where female directors were scarce.

All of the characters in the film have complex motivations and aspirations, though none epitomize the film's themes and message more than Joey: she does not conform to gender expectations (her chosen name is even unisex) she does not follow the rules, and is sexually liberated. It's said that Ricky Lee wrote the character as male and the results are pretty fascinating. 

Besides being a film with progressive and feminist overtones, it's surprising how much the film addressed LGBT relationships back in the day, considering how ridiculously conservative a country we can be. And having taken place near the tail end of Marcos' regime, the sociopolitical commentary extends to that as well.

The restoration job of Moral is pretty impressive. The restoration was done on a 35mm uncut version of the film, (apparently censors removed around 20 minutes from the commercial release) and it was in pretty bad shape, as mold had degraded the print significantly. Despite that, the picture quality looks decent in high resolution. If you've seen this film 35 years ago, you may consider revisiting this restored cut, as there are a lot of new things to appreciate, not to mention this is Diaz-Abaya's original vision for the film.

It's easy to see why Moral is considered a modern masterpiece. It's a fantastic film that remains relevant even today. With both Karnal and Moral restored, here's hoping Brutal gets restored next.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Changing Partners takes us on a ride through a carousel of love and heartbreak

Based on a musical play of the same name by Vincent De Jesus, Changing Partners takes us into the middle of a six year  long relationship between Cris and Alex. Cris is 15 years younger than Alex, and Alex bears most of the financial burden in the relationship. While Alex is relatively well adjusted and grounded thanks to experience, Cris is carefree and reluctant to settle down. 

It sounds like a typical May-December romance, but here's the catch: both Alex and Cris are portrayed by two actors each - Cris is played by Sandino Martin and Anna Luna, and Alex is played by Jojit Lorenzo and Agot Isidro. The characters change throughout scenes, while the story details largely remain the same. It's executed with such precision that it feels entirely seamless. We see the relationship play itself out in all its myriad permutations, with the film playing on our expectations of each permutation.

This daring conceit (not to mention the fact that the film is a musical) doesn't feel gimmicky, and communicates the fact that the trials and tribulations of love and heartbreak, warts and all, transcend lines of age and gender. Despite the fact that the characters change every so often, it's easy to invest one's self in their relationship and partake in their joys and commiserate with them in their heartbreak.

The music accompanying the film is also noteworthy. It might not be to everyone's taste, but it has a certain musical flair that I personally enjoyed. The final song, Maleta, is particularly heart-wrenching. The film stuck with me for hours after I watched it, and this song largely contributed to that.

Wildly inventive, resonant, and driven by powerful performances especially from Isidro and Lorenzo, Changing Partners breathes fresh life into a conventional love story. 

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Nervous Translation looks at life through the eyes of a child

In Shireen Seno's Nervous Translation, we examine childhood through a child's innocent perspective. Her earlier film, Big Boy (2012), also explored similar themes in a wildly imaginative way. In this film, childhood, innocence and history intertwine in unexpected, magical ways.

Set in the late eighties, Yael is a young gradeschooler living at home with her mother. Her father lives overseas as an OFW, sending cassette tapes home for Yael and her mother to listen to. She's overly shy and introverted, but brilliant in school.

There are a lot of things in this film that aren't explained to us, because we see the world through Yael's eyes. We see Yael's arms covered in bandages, perhaps the result of an allergic reaction or an autoimmune disease (you can imagine the doctor in me trying to diagnose this particular condition) but we see it addressed directly only once. Yael's dad talks about "God's cooking," but other than the vague notion that it's some sort of innuendo there is no explanation for this either. At times the film moves into magical, dreamlike interludes. Events shown on TV happen out of place, perhaps a quirk of fractured, fragmented memories. And that's actually the point -  the film accurately portrays the mystery and magic that children see in otherwise mundane adult affairs. We don't know these things because Yael doesn't know these things either.

I should know, since I grew up in the eighties at around the same time as Yael. I had the same blanket that she had; our house had the same betamax player, the same clunky beige carrier air conditioner. I too recorded my voice onto cassette tapes that I sometimes listen to even today. I used to write things like Yael too, drawing and making up stories on yellow pad paper. There were no gadgets or smartphones to occupy my time, just my imagination, my toys and the entire world.

The film expertly sets up an emotional tone that works because of its unique perspective. A family visit becomes a slightly unwelcome intrusion; cousins become zombie invaders, a child gazing at her favorite uncle is mirrored by camera movement, illicit conversations heard almost out of earshot become strange curiosities. And because it gives us a child's perspective, the film helps us understand why kids do weird things sometimes.

Like Big Boy, Nervous Translation ties in this childhood with another, historical, childhood. Having taken place just after the EDSA Revolution, Nervous Translation frames a child's coming of age with our country's own coming of age. At the time, the country was still in a precarious state, with frequent blackouts and a constant state of danger from multiple coup d'etats. As a country, we may have been reborn after our liberation from decades of oppressive rule, but our country's second childhood mostly comprised of groping in the dark. Yet, on the other hand, this bigger picture may feel distant and inconsequential in the eyes of a child, unconcerned with such things.

This is brave and skillful filmmaking at work. Nervous Translation is a fine examination of childhood that touches on my sense of nostalgia in more ways than one.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Paki is a tender portrait of a Filipino family

[Paki v. 1. pry, to look with curiosity (generally used in the sense of "to pry into other peoples affairs"): manghimasok (makialam) sa mga gawain ng iba]

Giancarlo Abrahan's Paki (Please Care) shares some similarities with another film, Yoji Yamada's What a Wonderful Family! (2016) in that an impending separation becomes the catalyst for a thorough examination of an extended family in various, sometimes comedic, ways. Of course here the treatment is a little more subtle, and in this case the film's brilliance lies in ideas hidden between the lines.

The film starts with elderly Alejandra (Dexter Doria) coming from the ophthalmologist's clinic, presumably to have her cataracts examined. She's not really too keen on having the operation to remove these cataracts, but eventually she caves in to pressure and we next see her with an eye shield. Despite being the matriarch of the family (regularly a high and exalted position of authority)  Alejandra's agency is taken away from her time and again in casual situations. After being fed up with her husband's improprieties for the last time, she decides to separate from him, leading her to try to take refuge with her three daughters and adult grandson in succession.

This little roadtrip within a movie becomes the framework by which Alejandra's family is examined. It's remarkably divergent from the stereotypical notion of the Filipino family; there are single parents, same sex couples and dysfunctional relationships between siblings. But stereotypes seldom reflect truth, and this family situation perhaps more accurately reflects the current state of many Filipino families, as no family is truly run of the mill. (Personally, it hits home for my family in more ways than one.) Abrahan wisely avoids relying on exposition to flesh out the family's situation for the most part, only opting to air out the family's dirty laundry when it feels natural to have it.

The film may be lighter in mood than, say, Abrahan's first feature Dagitab, but there's an undercurrent of melancholy that pervades the film. It's a sense of melancholy built on years of regret and bad decisions. The family is built on a past we only glimpse momentarily, and it can be rather enjoyable trying to piece these fragments together. In many ways, Alejandra's trip is a means to take back control of her life, when such control has been co-opted from her by her family. It's the same kind of melancholy that walks side by side with the overwhelming burden and responsibility of maintaining a family and keeping it cohesive. It is reflected ever so poignantly during a scene where Alejandra is in a bar, with the independence she wanted, yet now utterly alone.

Buoyed by the performance of a stellar ensemble cast, Paki is a relatively lighthearted, tender and gentle examination of the Filipino family. But within that gentle exterior lies powerful emotional heft that is surprisingly affecting.

sources:

https://www.tagalog-dictionary.com/search?word=paki

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Bundok Banahaw: Sacred and Profane - up the holy mountain

Cinema One Originals' documentary features have always challenged the form in one way or another. The first of two documentaries in this year's lineup is Bundok Banahaw: Sacred and Profane by Dempster Samarista. Though it's not as out there as some of last year's entries, it's still a fascinating piece, a hypnotic film filled with indelible imagery.

The film takes an immersive approach to its subject. There is no narration or overlying text, and the film does not take sides or push a thesis. Through the camera lens we see Banahaw as if we were a pilgrim, listening to these people's stories. The footage is stabilized and floaty, as if we were ourselves spirits wandering the holy mountain.

The mountain itself is a character in this documentary, its presence felt everywhere. It hums in the background as we hear people talk about God, faith and spirits. Rocks and caves are filled with candlelight, giving darkened interiors a strange golden, ethereal glow. The footage of the mountain itself and its surrounding forest is worth the price of admission, yet it is not the only subject of the documentary.

The people occupying Banahaw are equally as interesting. Their stories form a kaleidoscope of faith, history and belief, a hodgepodge of Christian beliefs (the legacy of the Spanish occupation) and pre-Spanish Filipino mysticism rooted in atavism, animism and paganism. The result is something that is far different than vanilla Christianity, best seen in a scene juxtaposing a blessing ritual inside a cave with scenes from a Catholic mass.

The fluidity of these people's faith is also something I did not expect. One of the most fascinating scenes in the entire film for me is when some of the mystics or wise men gather and discuss scripture and faith together, testing and debating it. Here they show their own views on God and faith and their own sense of spirituality. It's a far cry from the rigid dogmatism and resistance to change that I'm accustomed to, and yet this may more accurately describe man's own ever-changing relationship with his soul.

A lesser filmmaker might have opted to opine, to ascribe motive or judge character. But Samarista wisely lets these spiritual people speak for themselves earnestly and honestly. Bundok Banahaw is not only about the mountain, but also the story of a people seeking connection with the divine in their own, culturally unique way.

***

p.s. as an aside, the only real problem I had with the film was that the end titles and text were too small to read, which was an unfortunate choice.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Nay is a blood soaked tale of class, power and privilege

(this review contains some spoilers.)

Martin (Enchong Dee) is a twentysomething millennial from a rich family. For most of his life he has been taken care of by Luisa (Sylvia Sanchez). But Luisa holds a dark secret: she is an aswang, a vampire like creature that feeds on human flesh. Her subsequent actions eventually turn Martin into one as well, changing his life in unexpected, supernatural ways.

There is commentary in Kip Oebanda's Nay, and it's not particularly subtle about it. Martin's character speaks in Taglish, stereotypical of privileged young professionals like himself, while Luisa speaks in Tagalog. He is raised by absentee parents who never show up at any time in the film - even their voices (as heard in a Skype call) are distorted and incomprehensible. Martin's not a bad person by any means, and to his credit he tries to do the right thing and use his status to help others.

Once he is transformed into a supernatural creature by Luisa, he learns that even in the supernatural world, arrogant, supremacist behavior isn't uncommon - as aswang, they treat humans as something below them, as food to be consumed. He tries to resist, but it is in his nature to feed. He tries to justify the killings (or at least who he kills,) but is told that ultimately it doesn't matter anyway. The parallels of Martin's struggle to the the current exploitation and killing of the poor, and our society's growing desensitization to these injustices, is clear.

While it is thematically rich, the film does not always execute these things in a satisfying or compelling manner. The film isn't scary at all, and at times seems aimless. The ending is marred by a strangely edited sequence. The Taglish dialogue does have a purpose, but sometimes I feel as if it's overdone. The film veers into camp sometimes, which can be detrimental since it tackles some serious concepts. There's actually a term for this: Narm.

That said, the lighting and practical effects are great, often evoking the vibe of local horror and suspense films  of the seventies, eighties and nineties, such as Patayin sa Sindak si Barbara (1995), or works by Celso ad Castillo or Eddie Romero during the same time period such as Beast of the Yellow Night (1972). So maybe in a way it was meant to be a little campy. 

Nay is an interesting film weighed down by questionable execution and a tone that makes one wonder if it should be taken seriously or not at all. It's not particularly scary in any way, but it's got an interesting aesthetic that might appeal to some viewers.

Cinema One Originals 2016/2017 | Si Magdalola at ang mga Gago: gaguhan of the good kind

At first, Jules Katanyag's Si Magdalola at ang mga Gago is about a group of drug dealing thugs who find their way into a quiet, forested village to deal drugs and maybe even guns. But they run into the local mangkukulam Magda (Peewee O Hara) and his granddaughter. As a mangkukulam, Magda is able to commune with spirits and do otherworldly things through her myriad concoctions. Magda's granddaughter (Rhen Escano) on the other hand, is rebellious and wants nothing more than to escape the village for the wider world. She's also beginning to discover her sexuality, which proves to be a problem.

Then

    things

        get 

           crazy.

I think it goes without saying that Si Magdalola at ang mga Gago is weird. It plays with narrative in many different ways. It uses subtitles that act as both translation and commentary that adds another layer of crazy. It doesn't even leave its own credits immune to its weirdness. This is easily Seijun Suzuki's Pistol Opera (2001) levels of insanity. There are guns, drugs and a samurai sword (which I am almost certain is a reverse edged sword replica from Rurouni Kenshin).

And yet, the film serves as a strange fairy tale about women, and how indulging in one's sexuality, curiosity or womanhood in a world like this only leads to violence, death and destruction. While the granddaughter's curiosity towards sexuality should be natural, it's punished. A young girl, told not to peek at an impending execution, decides to take a peek anyway.

The movie is hindered by a setup that takes up 75% of the film's running time. It's way too long and reduces the impact of the last 25% of the film. While its weirdness is the biggest part of its charm, it doesn't always completely pay off in satisfying ways.

Si Magdalola at ang mga Gago is like a film high on drugs. It needs the viewer to be engaged and ready to partake in its weirdness. If one's not in the mood, this can prove to be a problem. But personally I'd say stick with it and let the movie take you on a ride.

Cinema One Originals 2017 | Si Chedeng at si Apple has the "supporting" cast take center stage

Chedeng (Gloria Diaz) and Apple (Elizabeth Oropesa) are two friends who have a long history together. They couldn't be more different: the former has lived a long and productive life with her now ailing husband Francisco (Dido dela Paz) while the latter is in an abusive relationship. When both Chedeng and Apple's partners die of varied causes, the two of them decide to go to Cebu to find Chedeng's first and greatest love, a woman named Lydia.

In the spirit of last year's Patay na si Hesus, Si Chedeng at si Apple is yet another fun, quirky weird road trip about two ladies, a severed head, and tons of crazy hijinks. Road trip movies are structured so that the main characters have personal realizations and catharses aside from the actual purpose of the trip. In this case Chedeng and Apple find both themselves and each other in more ways than one.

Perhaps the most memorable movie of this type is Ridley Scott's 1991 film Thelma and Louise, where the road trip serves as a n unadulterated window into women's experiences, unhindered by any attachments or connections to men. Si Chedeng at si Apple adds its own special magic to this type of movie, challenging gender roles and expectations with a distinctly Filipino flavor. It attacks the chauvinistic notion that women be dutiful wives or subservient spouses. Perhaps in another film, Gloria Diaz's Chedeng would be a perfect Maria Clara, concerned only with the welfare of her children and her family. But in this film Chedeng is more than that: a woman with her own thoughts and feelings.

It's best encapsulated during a scene near the very beginning of the film, where it's revealed Apple once had a very minor supporting role in a big film. While she only really has one speaking line, her role is crucial to the main character reaching their own personal moment. In many levels, this sees itself echoed in the rest of the film: as women, both Chedeng and Apple have been relegated to supporting roles in society, with both of them suppressing their true feelings and desires in deference to their expected roles as women: wife, provider, mother, grandmother. It's only when they are freed from those expectations that they begin to explore their own, true selves. In the context of Chedeng and Apple's friendship, this supporting-main relationship is reflected through their willingness to do anything for each other.

The film solidifies this friendship in an emotional resolution to the trip that proves to be surprisingly moving, despite being relatively bereft of dialogue. It might not be as deeply felt as the ending to Patay na si Hesus, but it's still resonant nonetheless. And in the film's ending, both Chedeng and Apple are in wedding dresses, with no groom in sight. In more ways than one, both Chedeng and Apple are married to each other; united in a distinct and unique bond stronger than any relationship they've ever had with a man.

Though a bit slow at the start, Si Chedeng at si Apple is fun, quirky, riotously funny and surprisingly moving. It's not perfect, sure, but it's a Cinema One Originals 2017 film worth checking out.