Present Confusion Reviews | Dune (Villeneuve, 2021)

 

My first exposure to Dune was when I was a young boy. The Far East Network's Philippine arm (FEN-P), made to service American troops stationed abroad, was to screen David Lynch's 1984 adaptation. I was a fan of science fiction even at a young age and the strange images of Lynch's equally strange adaptation hooked me in. I prepared myself and watched the film on its scheduled Friday night showing while my mother was asleep, hoping that my father wouldn't come home - at least until the film was over.

What I ended up watching (my first Lynch film, as it turns out) was indeed strange, but was otherwise a rather conventional take on the hero's journey, or monomyth. In Lynch's interpretation Paul Atreides' words are the words of God Himself. Lynch's Paul is chosen by destiny and endowed with the power of miracles - powers strong enough that it can make it rain on a desert planet.

FEN-P went away with the Americans, leaving a country, long made complacent under the sway of colonial masters, to fend on its own. It hasn't been a smooth ride since, and we're just months away from an election that will affect the lives of millions. But the Americans' hold on our history, as allies and liberators that "gently" carried us to self-sufficiency, remains. Of course, real history paints a different, if a more nuanced, picture, but colonial mentalities tend to stick for a long time.

It was only during my college days that I read Frank Herbert's seminal 1965 science fiction novel Dune and found out that it actually deconstructs the idea of monomyths. Monomyths are deeply rooted in the creation of many religions, which is why they take root and spread so easily. In the midst of an impoverished, suffering population, the idea of a messiah that could solve all their problems is enticing. It has been used as the tool of many a conqueror in Earth's history, and it was used here to serve Paul's interests. While Herbert's "original" Paul has superhuman powers as well, he is but a speck in the larger machinations of the universe. In its omniscient third person point of view, the book is written as if it were told as a legend, by historians. Quotations from the writings of Irulan (who serves as Paul's personal historian) preface most of the chapters of the book. Myth and history are intertwined - mythmakers create history and mold it to serve their ideology or purpose, regardless of what the person at the center of that myth thinks about it. Truth is not necessarily a requirement in the creation of these myths. Like what happened in my country, history was molded into myth, turning conquerors into allies and saviors.

In that sense, I think that Denis Villeneuve's adaptation of Dune (or at least, the first part of it) deeply understands this theme. Subliminally, it does so with its grandiose framing, juxtaposing its characters with large and imposing vistas - sometimes so grand that the scenery dwarfs its subjects. Villeneuve's Paul is much like Herbert's Paul - possessing all these powers yet reluctant to step into the role that mythmakers and history have laid out for him. He is deeply aware of what a leader like him can accomplish, and what a leader like him can leave behind - veneration leads to fanaticism, which leads to nothing good in the history of man, ever. In fact, Herbert's subsequent books deal exactly with the folly of charismatic leaders - specifically the consequence of their legacy, and the curse of omniscience.

This idea of the smallness of the individual in the grander scheme of things is also seen in how Villeneuve decides to portray the story's point of view. In the books we are privy to the schemes of the Emperor and his plan to eliminate a potential threat to his throne. Thus, in the books, one of the most compelling elements in the story is the constant double-guessing and subterfuge involved, perhaps embodied the most in the characters of Count Fenring and his wife, both characters that have been omitted in this adaptation and in Lynch's 1984 film. In Villeneuve's film, we see the goings on mainly through the eyes of Paul and his immediate family. There is a sense of something going on in the background, but Paul does not completely know, and by extension we also do not know what that looming threat is.

Paul moves through the story assailed by visions - not just of the future but of alternate realities, destinies where foes become friends and destinies where his rise to power fails. Part one thus ends on a thematic level - albeit not a very satisfying one for some - where Paul locks the course into one particular future with potentially horrifying consequences for humanity as a while.

With all that said, the narrative meat of the matter lies in the second half of the book - exactly the half that hasn't been adapted yet. I do not feel like I can completely assess Villeneuve's vision for Dune as a whole without seeing that part. For now, all I have is this "incomplete" film. And even in assessing this work by itself, the film has its share of problems. In trying to prune down the film into something that can be digested by mass audiences, the adaptation loses some of the cultural complexities and nuance that Herbert injected into his book. It's possible that Villeneuve will address these problems in future installments of the work, but as something that stands on its own, it's reasonable to come up with the assessment that this feels like half of a film.

Vivamax and Chill: Reviews of four films

 (These reviews originally appeared in Letterboxd, and have been slightly modified for use on this site.)

Taya (Roman Perez Jr., 2021)

"Cute ka pa naman, kaso tanga ka lang."

A young man who is horny on main 24/7/365 makes a lot of very stupid decisions in a film that kind of ejaculates prematurely around 20 minutes in, segueing into a pointless sequence of events before going back to the plot (in equally idiotic fashion) and ending in something that, I'll be honest, I kinda liked. There may be something in there about how higher education does not guarantee financial security and how this unfair disadvantage leads people to hustle and get into shady shit, but nothing goes anywhere.

The character writing in this film is non-existent; people are reduced to one or two things and nothing else, Horny student boy is horny. Chinese mob boss wants money. Girl who guy (eventually) wants (they're interchangeable lol) has no motivation, and horny boy loves her because... he's horny? His hugot-ish flashback of her is like 60% sex scenes lol. Finally, final girl really loves anal.

The main "love" story in this is based on a post sex conversation talking about hometowns and other garbage that ultimately has no chemistry and doesn't make the romance believable in any capacity. Also, the preceding sex act, thanks to what looks like runny Ludy's Peanut Butter, looks like something out of 2 Girls 1 Cup. Have fun with that mental image. As the protagonist escapes his surroundings to start over (how'd he get the money? could he financially sustain that lifestyle?) the proceedings escalate into a subplot that would be a movie on its own, but is nevertheless crammed in as the movie's second act. 

That's one of the biggest problems with the film: it feels like three or four movies crammed into 90 minutes, each with their own ideas and plots. The sad thing is that some of these films within a film would have panned out better had it they been done as standalone features. In this case, everything feels overstuffed. The soundtrack is fire, though. Seek that out if you have the time.

Shoot Shoot! Di ko Siya Titigilan (Al Tantay, 2021)

The original Shoot-Shoot, a song off Andrew E's album Krispy Na, Kreamy Pa, is about a hypersexual, controlling, manipulative partner who doesn't want his wife to go on vacation because that would mean his little general won't get action for a month. In the song, he brags that when she gets back, he'll skip all the foreplay and go straight to fucking, not stopping even when she comes. The pleasure is all his and his alone. If you are somehow disgusted by that description, well congrats, you are a normal functioning human being. As for the film based on the song, it isn't as distasteful as the song but for the most part it shares the same spirit.

Andrew E plays Jack, an aspiring actor who gets a big role playing a billionaire. He doesn't look like a conventional billionaire so I initially questioned the logic behind his casting, but he does look like a high roller who walks into Resorts World or something and bets millions of pesos, so what do I know, right? While rehearsing one of his billionaire lines, he is overheard by his neighbor and mistaken for a real billionaire. Hijinks ensue.

Now to be fair, it's not quite as wretched as Tantay's other recent films, though that is still a relative term (cue 54 year old Andrew E enthusiastically caressing 21 year old AJ Raval's chest with his lips) and thanks to not relying solely on disgusting infidelity as comedy, some of the (still crass) jokes pop out more. I can see some titos enjoying this as long as they are brain dead and not thinking about the movie too much.

And also to be fair, the main story does portray some social issues that grow even more relevant as the divide between rich and poor grows ever more wider. It shows us how much the idea of money and capital has enslaved common folk, in that 1) their attitudes change towards the perception of someone with a higher social status 2) they are lured to waste away their money via gambling thanks to unscrupulous individuals, I mean for example how many middle class folks do you see in casinos? 3) said individuals are closely attached to local government officials (and said government officials are not held liable for their collusion) and 4) these financially strapped individuals rely on singular saviors to help bail them out of their financial situation, which is never a tenable course of action.

The film ends with a police-ex-machina, using the state apparatus to resolve the central conflict without much fuss, instead of the film using the opportunity to have the people band together and fight. It's an Al Tantay film, I kinda expected comedic fisticuffs in the third act.

All in all, meh. You can always find worse in the Vivamax library, but you can watch better films there too. Also, I wonder if all this is just a cinematic manifestation of a middle aged crisis.

(And as an aside, the gambler dudes' reason for assassinating Jack is because they have no electricity. So why did they suddenly have electricity literally the day after, before any payments have been made? Do they have a generator lying around?)

Paraluman (Yam Laranas, 2021)

Writing a good, believable romance is HARD. One needs to have two characters with good chemistry, a relationship that progresses naturally, and a premise that doesn't feel contrived. Unfortunately, Yam Laranas' Paraluman fails all three criteria: a joyless, tepid affair that is as unsexy as it is boring. 

As with Death of a Girlfriend, the film seems to prefer portraying female leads as lusty (yet virginal!) characters, draped mostly in slinky nightgowns that fall off the nipple. I'm not sure if that's Laranas' preference, or something mandated by Viva to enhance sex appeal. Either way, it maxes out the creep factor by several orders of magnitude. 

The relationship between Jao Mapa and Rhen Escano's characters lacks anything remotely romantic, more often than not resembling a bad porno instead of a sexy drama. The fact that he is technically her landlord (and way older) is itself a more than a bit skeevy. They apparently bond together via computer tutorial sessions, which is ridiculous considering Youtube has tons of videos, for free. Maybe it's not that ridiculous, come to think of it, if their goal was not to learn C++, but to learn the ways of the D instead. 

I'll go ahead and excuse myself for that horrible joke. 

Okay I'm back. What's even more egregious is the ending, where the dude narcs on himself, goes to prison for a few years, THEN goes back and meets with his now totally legal age girlfriend, with what looks like the full support of his (I assume) ex-wife? Okay I guess? There's a whiff of a sideplot as well that shows that the wife is not a very good administrator or government official, and perhaps someone more pedantic than me can draw out something more substantial from the source material, but in this case, it isn't worth it.

69 + 1 (Darryl Yap, 2021)

Darryl Yap seems to have mastered a very specific art of gimmick-based storytelling, where he uses controversy and shock value (or at least, the threat of such things) to peddle ideas that (to be honest), aren't as smart as Yap probably thinks they are. Despite scorn from audiences, evidently seen in most of the reviews on letterboxd, that approach seems to be paying dividends anyway, with most of his films ranking at the top of Vivamax's movie list on the week of their release. This is the movie equivalent of a shitpost - deliberately triggering to some, composed mainly of filler and mostly devoid of meaningful content, but still enjoyable to a significant chunk of people.

Or maybe I'm completely missing some nebulous point here. Well go ahead! Have at it legitimate film critics! Plumb those depths, fist that rectum all the way to the elbow.

This is not about a polyamorous relationship, and it's barely a "lesbian film" either - the film looks like it was written by a man whose only concept of lesbians is from lesbian porn (and not the kind that's geared towards lesbians, either) - a Kechiche-ian filmmaking sensibility as fresh as an unwashed perineum. By the end of the movie, the hetero couple delivers the film's patented Darryl Yap Hugot Message of the Week (TM) and it solves all of the lesbian couple's problems. Hooray I guess.

If you are not looking for anything particularly enlightening and want to ogle at girls or something, well you're in for a treat, which is to say sure you could either watch this or just skim pornhub, you do you, don't let me tell you what to do.

I have not yet slept in 30 hours watching these films and I am way too tired for this lol. Good night.

Dispatches from TIFF 2021 2: Electric Boogaloo

 

Julia Ducorneau's bizarre yet hypnotic Titane begins with bodies subjected to different kinds of violence: the physical violence of a vehicular accident, and later, the violence that sometimes arises from objectification, given by leering men to gyrating models in some sort of car show.

Alexia (Agathe Rouselle) seems to identify with these cars as a result of a childhood accident, and she transforms herself thusly to become one with that image. This transformation, which spans the rest of the film, blurs the distinction between flesh and machine. As Alexia transforms even more, we see that this is a film where the lines between gender disappear as well - a film where gender distinctions exist not in clearly defined orbits, but in the nebulous uncertainty of a cloud of electrons.

The film vacillates from one thing to another as Alexia pursues pleasure after pleasure, but in the second half, the film shifts. Alexia disguises herself as the long lost son of a firefighter (Vincent Lindon) who then takes her in under his wing, believing her deception wholesale. Or does he? While earlier the film is populated with female bodies in the throes of pleasure, pain or death, it is contrasted here with the presence of the masculine bodies of firemen, a predominantly male role in France. Alexia, now Adrien, lies in between these two extremes.

Bodily violence and transformation still exist in this second half. As with Alexia, Vincent inflicts violence upon his own body, injecting what looks to be steroids in order to chase after some sort of ideal masculine image. Alexia and Vincent's actions mirror each other, but what leads to self realization for one may lead to folly in another. Embedded in that desire for a modified self-image is a neediness inherent in both characters: Vincent needs a son as much as Alexia needs a father-figure. In my view, perhaps it is an attempt to convey something about the means with which we view other people, in a way, a different kind of "objectification" - in that to pursue their own desires and meet deep seated needs, the person doing the objectifying makes the object fungible (i.e. replaceable with something else), denies their subjectivity and strips them of agency. Perhaps Vincent does not care that Alexia is not his son, and perhaps Alexia does not care that she is deceiving Vincent - at least not at first. Eventually though, the two come to a strange sort of understanding, continuing to use each other for their own needs because they know of nothing or no one else that can fill the hole in their lives.

Titane is violent, provocative, and definitely not for everyone, but it manages to plumb depths that few other films have managed today.

Styled in the image of a macho action flick straight out of the 1980s, Edwin's adaptation of Eka Kurniawan's Vengeance is Mine, All Others Pay Cash reflects the kind of culture it criticizes: a hypermasculine, patriarchal culture where men speak in tongues of violence.

Ajo (Marthino Lio) is a brawler who covers his own sexual impotence with macho acts. His life turns upside down when he meets bodyguard Iteung (frequent Edwin collaborator Ladya Cheryl). The two fall in love but nothing is ever so simple.

The image of masculinity the characters of this film want to convey contrasts with reality: while the men of the film wallow in their own impotence, the women get things done. His insecurities are balanced by her not giving a damn. That strength of character, at least for Iteung, seems to be a prerequisite of sorts - there is the implication that in a world like this, women have to be tough to survive.

The film flows like freeform jazz, which does make it uneven in some parts. Some sideplots feel like a random segue, a solo of sorts, before going back to the main performance. Ultimately it all leads back to the main character, the nature of his impotence (I won't spoil it), the culture that caused it, and how it ties to the nature of the society he lives in, once ruled by strongmen who fed on that culture.

Chung Mong-hong follows up his 2019 film A Sun with another melodrama about families and the ties that bind them, also with a similar mix of pain and hope. In this case, The Falls explores the myriad ways mental illness shapes and reshapes familial bonds.

The film begins with some clever misdirection, shown through the perspective of Pin-wen (Alyssa Chia), a divorcee raising her daughter alone. The relationship between mother and daughter is strained, exacerbated by the additional stresses of COVID and shared isolation. A blue tarp covers the windows, blocking the sunlight (a motif in Chung's previous film) and drawing shadows between the two. But as the film goes on, we switch to the perspective of Xiao Jing (Gingle Wang), we see cracks that were in plain sight, and we see how their relationship unravels from there. Both Pin-wen and Xiao Jing start from scratch, re-evaluating their relationship and thinking how to live their lives anew. People familiar to a genre may expect things to get dire real fast.

But, like A Sun (and unlike many films of the same genre) the proceedings are far from bleak; the film focuses on the many little ways mother and daughter adapt to their new situation, often for the better. As Xiao Jing and Pin-wen come to terms with their situation, they find a hidden strength that they probably didn't notice before. This character journey is circuitous, and Chung takes his time with these characters; perhaps the film can be faulted for that, but this viewer found the film engrossing all the way through.

And, Chung uses our own stereotypical expectations from melodramas to his advantage in the film's third act. Perhaps the more genre savvy among us would form doubts, expecting a sudden turn to bleakness. This creates a sense of uneasiness and tension as one expects the worst and hopes for the best. Will Pin-wen relapse? Is she now truly well? The answer is that there is no concrete answer; Pin-wen will have to ask herself that question every day for the rest of her life. And that said, one's relative optimism (or cynicism) will affect one's reading of the film's final moments. In times like this, I choose hope.

Dispatches from TIFF 2021

 

When was the first time you learned that your parents were just like you? When did they lose the veneer of infallibility that many children bestow upon them growing up? It starts with the most innocuous memories - the acknowledgement of a mistake, a moment of shame or regret or sometimes, something completely unrelated. 

When Nelly (Josephine Sanz) loses her grandmother, she tries to come to terms with that fact, as she and her family clean out her childhood home. Things get complicated when her mother disappears and Nelly  comes across a child her age, Marion (Gabrielle Sanz), who looks exactly like her.

Celine Sciamma follows up the masterful Potrait of a Lady on Fire with a tender, quiet examination of grief viewed through the eyes of a child. It draws comparisons to, of all things, Hayao Miyazaki's My Neighbor Totoro (1988). In both films, children use the unreal and the supernatural to make sense of an uncertain and scary world.

But the processing of grief isn't limited to Nelly, as she is not the only one who grieves. Sciamma shows us, in little bits and pieces, how mother and child process their grief separately, then together, saying that sometimes it's easier to deal with loss and say goodbye if one deals with it in simpler terms.

When was the last time you talked to your neighbor? When was the last time you formed a connection with them?  The concrete towers that house us are a far cry from the villages and communities of our collective past. In the here and now, one can live their life without ever talking to the people living mere meters away from them. We are becoming a society of complete and utter strangers.

Jin-ah works as a call center agent for a BPO. Ironically, though her profession requires her to talk to people on a daily basis, she does not connect with any of them, as they are merely customers on a queue, words and personal information on a computer screen. She lives a solitary life, estranged from her parents, spending her off time alone in her apartment, falling asleep to background noise. That all changes when she meets Sujin, a new recruit to the call center who has trouble fitting into the call center. At the same time, her next door neighbor dies unexpectedly, making her wonder if eventually she'll end up like him, unloved and alone.

A quiet but powerful examination of loneliness and identity in an increasingly depersonalized world, Hong Seung-eun's debut film Aloners thrives in small, impactful moments of human connection, pinpoints of light that burst into fireworks. It is both a reminder and acknowledgement of sonder, that is, the idea that each and every person has a life as vivid and complex as your own.

There seems to be a tendency among the filmmakers of the Romanian new wave to stretch societal boundaries to see if something will eventually break. Radu Muntean's latest film Intregalde explores the relationship between giver and taker, and what happens if the taker takes all and the giver is given nothing in return.

When three humanitarians come across an old man in an isolated country road and help him, the proceedings feel like they might erupt into horror at any minute. What happens instead is no less suspenseful and perhaps far more interesting and funny. He leads the three into further and further into the woods as they begin to question the man's sanity. There is no benefit to helping the man further; why even try? All three answer this question differently - with indifference, annoyance or genuine concern, and it's a treat to see these things pan out.

There is a battle here in this film between the desire for self preservation and the desire to help others. Is altruism truly selfless, or is most of it done for one's self-satisfaction? And when help has been given but is rejected, how far does one go to keep helping? The epilogue feels optimistic, or at least hopeful - perhaps not a complete affirmation of humanity, but definitely not a repudiation of it.

Cinemalaya 2021 Indie Nation Shorts Short Reviews

 Set A

Maris is one of the shortest films I've seen all year, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have anything to say - quite contrary, in fact. A short lesson in subjectivity teaches that information can come from different sources and educational backgrounds, and there's much more nuance to learned information than meets the eye.

In I Will Die for You, a young boy dreams to be a policeman. But this is a time when our policemen are urged to be something other than the protectors of justice they're made to be. While the film is full of interesting concepts, it doesn't mesh all that well in the end. Points for trying, though.

The Kafkaesque Konsumatumes traps its protagonist in a nightmare he cannot escape. It doesn't make sense, and it shouldn't - forced disappearances and the oppressive regimes behind them aren't built on reason or logic. My problem stems from the film's musical cues, giving the very serious proceedings a silly tone that saps it of its power. 

Phone Call is pretty much an advocacy film, but the problem is the message it's advocating is stripped of any nuance. The ensuing message isn't very helpful and may even be harmful, as the problems behind mental health are not tied strictly to only one cause.

Basol Balos was probably made with a budget of a few hundred pesos (or it might as well have been), though it is still entertaining. It tells the story of a horrible kid who mistreats the househelp and would give Eric Cartman a run for his money, who then runs into the househelper from hell. What takes it down a notch is the completely unnecessary ending, which invalidates what happened in favor of a cliched twist.

Sol comes from Joanna Vasquez Arong, who directed last years' To Calm the Pig Inside. This film, in my mind, cements her as a filmmaker to watch. While To Calm the Pig Inside weaves myth and reality to express trauma, this film outright shows us the aftermath of Typhoon Yolanda on three siblings - drawn to despair, crime or a desire to leave ghosts behind. It's a finely crafted character study that feels like a full length despite being less than half an hour long.

Set B

That Day is the kind of movie a lot of struggling students will identify with, and though the act of kindness at the center of the film is a good thing, one should hope that, eventually, we will live a society where it shouldn't need to happen in the first place.

Regta is about the Basi Revolt, one of the many uprisings against the Spanish occupation during the 1800s. What sets it apart from most other contemporary historical fiction is that it's a musical. Granted, it's quite possible that not all of the actors are trained in musical theater, and thus some of the musical performances don't exactly communicate the pain or struggle they are currently facing, but A for effort.

Paraiso is pretty straightforward, an environmental tale about a man destroying the very thing that keeps him alive. It's also a pretty horny film, which serves more as a distraction than anything else.

In 10,000 Errors, the English speaking denizens of heaven cater to journeymen (and women) on their way either to heaven or hell. Two of these people in particular, a politician and a mysterious person, are waiting their turn and share their lives to each other. What happens next is not surprising, but it's still entertaining either way. The film is nicely acted, but it goes on longer than it probably should.

Portraying the abuses afflicted against women is a tightrope act. One risks the problem of making the proceedings exploitative, and failing to give the woman at the center of the film any power over her situation (or at least, give her a little dignity over the whole thing) turns such a film into a miserablist affair, not unlike poverty porn. Unfortunately, Hija falls into that trap.

There is a moral to Maratabat, in that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. In the context of where the filmmaker lives, revenge is all too common. But that's all the movie has going for it. What is the film trying to tell about drugs, if at all? Overall, in terms of execution, the film doesn't feel substantial - all it is in the end is a montage of guys looking dramatically at their gunshot wounds.

I don't think Philippine Cinema will ever get over the tragic deaths of Alexis Tioseco and Nika Bohinc. Though I may not exactly agree with all of it, Alexis' words, though now relegated to magazine articles in dusty bins or defunct websites in digital oblivion, still ring true to every cinephile who lived during that time. Like this last short film's title says, Don't Worry, We Still Hear You. I wonder, though, what he'd think of the film being part of Cinemalaya, a festival that he criticized in one of his most-well known pieces. Is the festival finally "[putting their efforts] in service of Filipino Cinema?" We'll probably need a medium for that.

Set C

I don't want to spoil the conceptual richness of Rekwerdo (so I won't,) but the execution falls a bit flat, and there are tonal shifts that affect the final work.

One of my least favorite shorts in the program is Salidumay. Despite Mai Fanglayan's best effort, it's shoddy, corny, full of unnecessary music, and unable to articulate what it wants to say.

Yawyaw ni JP is very angry, and to be honest it should be. Presented from the perspective of an everyday citizen during the pandemic, it's a recap of everything that has happened so far, done through animation and clips of political cartoons. To anyone still on the fence (or anyone living under a rock for the past year,) it's a wakeup call.

The people depicted in Babu Jalhana are members of a Christian (or Christian-adjacent) community living in Sulu. This to me is a bit unusual considering the population is majority Muslim, and these people haven't been given a lot of attention in regional cinema (or cinema of any kind, for that matter.) That said, while it's an average COVID-era tale, there isn't any time to give the sociocultural milieu breathing room, and that's a bit of a shame.

I've reviewed Last 2, 3, 4, before in this blog. It's entertaining, but I couldn't help but get uncomfortable whenever the main character was subtly pressured to continue performing despite suffering an injury. It is a culture that creates winners, but leaves uncounted maimed bodies in its wake.

There's a hamminess to Pugon that would have otherwise ruined the film in any other circumstance, but its depiction of modern day debt slavery is fascinating enough that all that ham doesn't negatively impact the film overall. The film also sports a great performance from Soliman Cruz, whose slave master character is treated in the film sympathetically, or at least more than a mustache twirling villain.

Notes on Ikaw at Ako at ang Ending

 

How many days has it been since the pandemic started? March 2020 feels so far away, and there seems to be no ending in sight. And speaking of endings: many of the films I watched during those first few months were films about the end. Threads, The Day After, pandemic films in general, the bleaker the better. Maybe I was trying to contextualize what was going on with the world during those days that flowed into each other. Ultimately, I didn't find the meaning I was looking for during that time. In fact, I don't think I found anything at all.

Mylene (Kim Molina) and Martin (Jerald Napoles) feel like they're in similar dead ends. Mylene works as the staff of a resort hotel, but she doesn't feel fulfilled by her job. There are other things that affect her worldview, but she keeps those things to herself. Martin is a bagman for a wealthy politician, but because of previous unfortunate events, is just living his life one day at a time.

They meet each other and their relationship seems physical in nature (complete with a number of sexy scenes). But at this point in time, it feels more like Mylene and Martin need each other more than they love each other. They identify with their newfound partner because, perhaps unconsciously, they see something of themselves in each other. Some people who have watched the film note that the two characters take to each other quicker than expected, but to me this feels right. There's a bit of desperation in them meeting. When things seem so dire, wouldn't it be logical to find refuge in someone, anyone else?

While this is going on, the atmosphere is ominous, the tone uneasy and uncertain. Bad things are happening far away, but there's the notion that it can come at any moment. The apocalypse is looming. The "ending" in the film's title takes different forms: for the characters, and for the entire world.

What worth is there to a life that exceedingly feels meaningless? If the world is ending, what worth is it to live at all? This film's answer to that question reminds me of something Sartre said on existentialism: in an initial state where man is nothing, "he will not be anything until later, and then he will be what he makes of himself." Mylene and Martin find that while there is no reason behind existing, there is no reason not to live either, and they find that drive to live on in each other, apocalypse be damned.

Present Confusion Reviews | Evangelion 3.0 +1.01 Thrice Upon a Time (2021)

 

Note: Spoilers for the final Evangelion film are present.

It's the mid nineties, and the television series Neon Genesis Evangelion has just finished its run. The series created by Hideaki Anno, one of the industry's greatest animators, has exploded into massive success. But the show itself had run into many problems during its production. Moved to another timeslot and faced with budget problems, especially towards the end of the series' run, Anno is exhausted. "He was ready to die for it," recalls Shinji Higuchi, Anno's friend and longtime collaborator, remembering the tumultuous production of the series. It's said that Anno would work without resting just to finish an episode. The director had finished working on another series, Gainax's Nadia: The Secret of Blue Water, based on a concept from his mentor, Hayao Miyazaki. The production of that series had taken a toll on Anno's mental health, and he channeled his experiences, therapy sessions and psychological concepts learned during that time into Evangelion, perhaps as a form of self therapy.

Evangelion was revolutionary for its time: a deconstruction of the giant robot genre of anime, long dominated by hot blooded confident young men. In this case, the primary protagonist is Shinji Ikari, a socially awkward young boy with none of the hot bloodedness or swagger of his contemporaries. At the midpoint of the series, psychological themes of communication and loneliness were tackled and brought to the forefront. In fact, all of the characters in this series suffered from some sort of dysfunction. Their growth (and folly) is one of the things that made the series so fascinating to many. 

But the end of Evangelion's production had only served to worsen Anno's mental state. There was a sizeable backlash to episodes 25 and 26, thanks to the esoteric and introspective nature of those episodes. Anno recalls fans posting on forums that were discussing how to kill the director, and some extreme fans even went to Gainax headquarters and defaced the front facade. It's a symptom of a toxic culture that has only grown in recent years, thanks to the internet and the relative ease with which anyone can express their opinion. At this point, Anno had contemplated ending it all; perhaps jumping in front of a train or jumping off a building. In his recollection more than 20 years later, the only thing stopping him was the prospect of pain - in his words, he "didn't mind dying, but [he] didn't want it to hurt."

Once again, partially thanks to the urging of his peers, he channeled all that negativity and despair into a proper theatrical ending to the series: first the recap movies Evangelion Death and Rebirth, and finally, the 1997 film End of Evangelion, a bewildering, postmodern mindscrew that manages to be both unbelievably bleak and strangely hopeful at the same time. It is one of my favorite anime movies of all time.

It is the End of Evangelion that shares the most similarities to Anno's latest and perhaps final foray into the Evangelion franchise, Evangelion 3.0 + 1.0 Thrice Upon a Time. The two films are two sides of the same coin, the same film exploring one concept in markedly different ways.

The film begins after the events of Evangelion 3.0 (2012); after the death of Kaworu and a thwarted Fourth Impact, Shinji, Asuka and a nameless clone of Rei Ayanami roam the desolate countryside, now barren thanks to Shinji inadvertently causing Third Impact during Evangelion 2.0 (2009). The trio then come across an oasis in a sea of red - an encampment of Third Impact survivors, whose members include some of Shinji's old classmates.

This first third feels very different from anything we've seen in Evangelion so far. Some who watched this part liken the proceedings to a Ghibli anime, which is not surprising given the fact that Ghibli gave assistance to the production of the film.  This part is also what differentiates it from its twin, End of Evangelion: in this particular sequence, Shinji is given the space to understand the feelings of others, process his feelings and come out of his depression. Here, Shinji contextualizes the confusion and disorientation he experienced during the events of the last film. He has a support system in place this time, unlike in End of Evangelion where he had no one to talk to.

Shinji is not the only one who comes to terms with his feelings: the unnamed Rei Ayanami clone, previously without purpose or existence unless ordered, begins to settle into the rhythms of daily life and befriends the townsfolk. Throughout this part we know that this idyll cannot last forever; the occasional floating train or wandering Evangelion in the distance is a reminder that all this can be wiped out at any minute. But the people in the community persevere and live anyway, tying into the theme of Ayanami's arc and the theme of this entire part in particular: that in a state of dread or meaninglessness, we create our own meaning and sometimes that's all that one needs for a fulfilling life.

*

It's late 2012, and Evangelion 3.0 has just come out. Anno is in a creative slump in terms of Evangelion and production for the final film is put on hold. Deadlines are pushed and for a moment, the prospect of a sequel becomes remote. Anno recalls his creative dilemma after making the third film: "I was broken, I didn't think I had the talent to pull it off." He was afraid he didn't connect to Shinji anymore as a character, identifying more with Shinji's father, Gendou, instead. He takes a long break, producing and directing Shin Godzilla (2016) instead. Anno has always been a fan of Tokusatsu; one of his earlier films was a fan film of Ultraman. Shin Godzilla ends up being one of the franchise's best entries, winning the 40th Japan Academy Prize for best film.

It's now around 2017-2018. Production for the final Evangelion film has resumed. Anno is talking to a reporter for a documentary crew who has followed the director since the resumption of production. He asks the reporter to focus on the other crew members, to give importance to them.

Though indeed Evangelion 3.0 + 1.0 is a collaborative effort, it is a very personal film, an intimate look at Anno as a person and an artist. Because Anno identifies with Gendou more than Shinji, he is given an expanded character arc in the introspective second half of the film. Although his motivations are more or less the same, his character is far more fleshed out here. He is a tragic figure, consumed with the desire to face his loved one once again. This in itself is a noble ideal, but Gendou does it to the detriment of everything else - including his own humanity. This goes back to Shinji's actions in 2.0, where he decides to rescue the original Rei Ayanami at all costs, even if it causes Third Impact. Although audiences at the time may have seen the action as a heroic one - characteristic of the very characters Evangelion sought out to deconstruct - this last film shows that it's not a healthy mindset. The hot-blooded young man trope is inherently destructive and easily misunderstood. Had Shinji continued on with his actions in 2.0, he would have become just like his father. In a meta sense, it might even reflect the actions of a young, brash creator making whatever he wants without caring about the consequences, a brave yet potentially destructive act. What matters then for Shinji (and Anno by extension), is the kind of emotional maturity that he grows into over the course of these films. This is a major part of what sets apart this film from End of Evangelion, a point that we will discuss later.

Now all this is not to say that the film doesn't have its share of problems. It has a tendency to not explain important plot points, especially in the latter half of the film series. The films become almost impenetrable if viewed without the background of the other films and the previous series. Its a work that lends itself to multiple interpretations, and thus multiple viewings, because it is not an easy watch even for seasoned fans. Yet Anno seems to approach the finale as an experience more than a straightforward narrative feature, as the esoteric nature of the film's storytelling isn't as important as the message it wants to convey.

*

It is sometime in 2018. The same documentary crew that interviewed Anno earlier interviews Toshio Suzuki, main producer and one of the pillars of Studio Ghibli. This is not a surprise as Anno has a history with the company, having worked on Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind before Ghibli was even called Ghibli. At this time production on the final Evangelion film is continuing, but it is unclear when it will be finished. "Anno is an eternal adolescent," Suzuki says of his colleague, "He's almost 60 but he hasn't grown up."

Evangelion 3.0 + 1.0 is a coming of age not only for its main character, but for its creator as well. This is hardly an isolated incident, as Anno's own colleagues and contemporaries have made works that tackle the abandonment of childish fantasy for the real world. Anno's protege Kazuya Tsurumaki directed the seminal anime FLCL and Diebuster, while his former Gainax colleague Hiroyuki Yamaga directed Magical Shopping Arcade Abenobashi, both series featuring young protagonists who fear growing up and get into all sorts of situations in order to avoid it. In these works, nostalgia and homeostasis are the enemy, much like in the culmination of instrumentality in End of Evangelion where everyone is merged into a formless, unified existence, where no one can ever be hurt by others ever again. The problem is, what meaning is there to such a life?

End of Evangelion thinks inward, positing that one must keep on living in spite of how one is hurt by others, while Evangelion 3.0 + 1.0 thinks outward, noting how we must live not in spite of, but because of others, to consider what one can give to others rather than what one can take from them. In both cases, instrumentality is rejected, but the outcomes are completely different. In the latter finale, the film seems to say that we derive our own meaning not just from ourselves, but from others as well.

And metafictionally, this film is Anno's emancipation from Evangelion, a creator's coming of age. A creator's desire is to create, but some do not want to be shackled into one thing forever. Anno's journey to re-create Evangelion in this film series, a journey that took him 14 years, is not unlike the curse of the Eva pilots - to be forever young and unable to grow up. The ending of this scene, filmed in the train station in Anno's hometown, is the point of the entire film - that sometimes, we have to leave our old fantasy worlds behind and cross into the real world. There is nothing wrong with wanting to change and take responsibility for your own life, and I think that acknowledgement is a beautiful thing. The "eternal adolescent" has grown up.

*

It's the late 1990's and I'm a high school student nearing his own graduation. The week before, during a trip to Greenhills, I decided to buy a VHS tape that included two episodes of a show called Neon Genesis Evangelion. It starts in the middle, at episode 15 and 16, and I have little to no context on the series itself, but I'm hooked. I decide to buy more tapes the next time I come back to the hotel, if I manage to save up the money. The rest of my days in between are spent making theories and speculating about the series. I have been a fan ever since.

It's a couple of days ago, seconds after watching this film. I realize that this is not only Anno's emancipation from Evangelion, but ours as well. The film is a challenge to all of us to move on from these fantasy worlds and go out into reality to live our lives and maybe create something beautiful as well. A work can stay in our hearts forever, but all works of art have their natural end. In my experience, trying to revive that old spark never quite works out. The hate that Anno and the Gainax staff received after the end of the original series reminds me of fans today that are unable to move on from the past. They are angry because nothing is the same, or nothing feels like it once did. The thing is, nothing ever will, as memories are like fireworks, dazzling our senses once then never again. This iteration of Evangelion is not the same as it was before, and that's for the best. And once we've all removed the (DSS) collars that shackle us to our youth, we have the rest of our lives to look forward to.

Cinemalaya 2021 Main Competition Short Shorts Reviews

It's that time of the year again - Cinemalaya time! This edition has 13 films on its slate - in my recollection, the most entries in any Cinemalaya edition ever! Here are a bunch of short reviews of all the films in the main competition section:

Shorts A

I've seen Maski Papano already at QCinema 2020, and it still holds up after all these months. It's a humorous film about finding ourselves (and others) in communal isolation. As the first short of Shorts A (and thus, the first film I've seen in this festival) it's a great way to start things off.

Crossing consists of a relatively simple conceit, where a man planning something nefarious during a bus ride comes into a bunch of complications. But it also shows us how despite the best of intentions, thanks to the economic systems we live in, people are forced into cycles of violence.

There's a lot about Kawatan sa Salog that is intriguing, but ultimately it might have bitten off more than it could chew. It's beautifully shot and lends itself to multiple watches, but I'm not sure of the overall effect (at least with the two times where I watched it).

An Sadit na Planeta's visual conceit is the best thing about the film; curving the surroundings into a small sphere in the center of the frame. Director Arjanmar Ribeta uses the most of that concept to tell a story about a man living in a space for 40 days. Given the limited time in this small planet, this confined space of self is liminal, a transition between isolation, self discovery, and, as the closing shot seems to indicate, freedom. Given such a strong visual concept, the film's one weakness is its tendency to overnarrate, but it doesn't distract from the overall experience.

There are a lot of richly textured layers to Jayson Fajardo's Looking for Raffliesias and Other Fleeting Things. The most overt in my view is the way the film makes connections between the search for queer identity and mythologic creatures, and how the perception of these mythological creatures is tied into how people are othered and misunderstood, forced to hide (literally and figuratively). But the film also explores how misperception allows people to misconstrue evil or malice to things or people that they do not understand, while true evil works silently in the background. The problem is that this is all hidden behind a thick layer of ambiguity that makes the film harder to parse.

On the other hand, Out of Body runs into its subtextual layers seemingly by sheer coincidence (but if these layers are intentional, then that makes this my favorite short of this particular set.) On one hand it can be surface-read as how women in the entertainment industry (or women in general) are made into targets of violence by men, often by coercion and a toxic culture. In fact, the ending is an obvious metaphor for how men treat these women only as bodies (one character even notes that "(they) already have everything that (they) need" while discarding everything else.) It is, for all intents and purposes, a depiction of the loss of these women's agency. But the film can also be read as the disorientation one feels when they are governed by people (again, mostly men) who use misdirection, obfuscation and a lack of transparency to get what they want, whether the governed want that or not - something a lot of us are feeling right now.

And finally for this set of shorts, Ang Pagdadalaga ni Lola Mayumi would feel right at home at Virgin Labfest, as it fits the one-act play structure perfectly. But this is not merely a play on film as director Shiri de Leon deftly uses the tools of cinema to depict a woman's search for her sexual liberation and how sexuality can be repressed and shaped by old traumas. Certainly one of the most entertaining shorts of the entire lineup, and a strong contender for audience choice.

Shorts B

Another alumnus from QCinema 2020 is Namnama en Lolang, a story about frontliners in the time of COVID-19 and the people they leave behind. It's technically simple, but it packs a strong emotional punch, even months after I watched it the first time.

When I was a kid, my Catholic sectarian school (n.b. I'm not Catholic but that's irrelevant lol) gave us all a checklist-type questionnaire asking us about certain things. As a bunch of goody-two-shoes pre-teens that didn't know any better, we didn't know what "masturbation" meant and some of us took the explanation of the word in the questionnaire, "playing with your own" as "playing on your own", i.e. playing alone. So they ticked the checkbox. Cue several exasperated trips to the guidance counselor for about a dozen confused students. For some reason, that's the first memory I recalled when seeing the next film: Kids on Fire is one of my favorite Cinemalaya films of the year, a humorous exploration of pre-teenage sexuality and all the fire and brimstone that comes with it. Its conflation of sexual awakening with eschatological ideas and imagery makes a lot of sense, because our awakening into the world of sex is indeed an ending in a way: the end to innocence, the end to a naive understanding of our own bodies. AND: Mystica's in this film. Mystica in a Cinemalaya film, I didn't think I would ever say that in my lifetime.

Beauty Queen is an account of the life of Kumander Liwayway, famed guerrilla commander during World War II. While fascinating, it only serves as the origin story of her revolutionary career, choosing to eschew showing her exploits in battle in favor of showing her motivations behind joining the revolutionary forces. It's an interesting idea, ripe for further expansion, though even with the limitations of the short film, it manages to do things that other, longer, more expensive period films fail to do.

Ate O.G. explores the divide between classes and the experiences the 'servant class' of househelp and other miscellaneous workers have during this unprecedented event. The film makes them (and their problems) visible. The film doesn't aim for eliminating these class divides (at least permanently); but there is temporary solace and solidarity in mutual understanding, empathy, and, among other things, getting high together. I guess I can get behind that.

There is a quality to some conversations that make them fascinating to watch, but unfortunately that's more the exception than the rule. I wanted to like The Dust in Your Place, a story about a cartoonist-writing team as they try to sort out their relationship, but the end result left me wanting. It doesn't do anything with the cartoon idea - a missed opportunity given the richness of that visual format. Ultimately, its biggest weakness is its centerpiece -  the central conversation, which starts to become tedious after around 5 minutes. Perhaps I wasn't in the mood when I watched this, or it's a preference problem - the film just isn't my cup of tea.

And finally we have the only documentary in the entire lineup - Ang Mga Nawalan ng Pag-asa at Panlasa, a film that tackles the hardships of Ilocano food business owners during a time when owning a restaurant is harder than ever. It gains even more resonance considering the director of the film - a videographer who lost his job during the pandemic - faces similar economic uncertainties with the subjects of his film. If there's anything I can say to the film's credit, it is that it made me crave all that delicious looking food, and that's perhaps the best compliment I can give it.

*

Cinemalaya coverage will continue as the festival content is spread out over the month. Stay tuned to this space for more wacky reviews.

Notes on: Show Me What You Got (Cvetko, 2019)

 

I'm sure everyone and their dog has written about the fact that this is a movie about three people who love each other without judgement. That's definitely true, and there aren't a lot of examples of that. I could also go on about how I think the film makes a number of creative decisions that I don't necessarily agree with, or how it gets tropes and audiovisual elements from a certain genre of film (*cough*frenchnewwave*cough*) and reapplies it for this new story, or how the characters don't really have a lot to do except mope around or gallivant around the world until a major conflict in the third act. Or how the ending feels melodramatic and out of left field. The film is obviously flawed.

But instead, I'd like to talk about something else that I think the film is trying to say. Show Me What You Got is a film about displacement, a story that means a lot personally to its director, herself an immigrant: literally a person displaced from their homeland. It is a displacement not only of space; the entire film is also a recollection, a story that exists in the past and told in the present, a displacement of time. All the three protagonists are themselves displaced in a way. Nassim is the most obvious example, working as a fight trainer in the US, away from his family in Iran; Marcello's displacement is voluntary, having escaped his homeland to escape his responsibilities as well. Christine's displacement is physical and emotional: after the death of her grandfather, she is homeless and without an anchor. In one of the film's pre-pandemic moments, there are scenes of a pro-immigrant protest in the Trump Era, and in what is perhaps the one scene that stands out the most, the trio formalizes their relationship in a boat in a desert, itself a visual metaphor of displacement, of things not being where they should be.

And that gets to the heart of what I think the film is trying to say: in a state of displacement, one finds comfort in others, especially others who are undergoing the same thing. There is solidarity in that. And even if one is displaced, when you are with the ones you love, you are exactly where you need to be.

This review was originally posted on letterboxd: https://boxd.it/22AJY7

The film is available streaming on Upstream.ph, among other sources

Vivamax and Chill, with a little Netflix on the Side: thoughts on My Amanda, Silab, two DY movies and Death of a Girlfriend

 

Alessandra de Rossi's directorial debut begins with a Malick-esque shot of a starfield, giving the proceedings a sense of grandeur and self importance that, upon viewing the finished product, doesn't exactly add up. My Amanda is a personal story, told in the smallest scales, about two people who share a special bond.

The film mostly consists of vignettes showing TJ (Piolo Pascual) and Amanda (Alessandra de Rossi) hanging out, engaging in banter, and being the best of friends. Pascual and de Rossi have good chemistry with each other and the scenes are fun, though in real life I probably wouldn't be the kind of person to hang out with Amanda, who I found grating after the first 20 minutes. (That probably says more about me than it says anything about the two main characters.) Amanda is loud, fun, sometimes annoying, sometimes a mess, but TJ hangs out with her anyway and treats her like a dear friend, through thick and thin.

That's basically the entire movie, a premise that could be done in 20 minutes but is stretched out to 90. It's not bad per se, and it's definitely better than the dragged out histrionics of 12 (2017), which was also written by the actress, but it's not for everyone. To its credit it serves as a positive depiction of a heterosexual platonic relationship. I'm glad that TJ isn't revealed to be asexual or gay, because I feel that would diminish the nature of their bond - it will serve as an excuse and another indication that men cannot form meaningful relationships with women without sex being involved.

That said, we don't really know much about TJ at all. Although he is the point of view character, we learn nothing about TJ and everything about Amanda - through his eyes, but without any desire nor viewed through a particular gaze. If anything it reminds me of Joel Ferrer's Elise (2019), though in that film desire definitely was in the picture, and at the same time we know more about the guy (Bert) because that film explores his character as well.

It helps that the film is helmed and written by a woman, though that brings up another point. TJ the character is based on de Rossi's male friends, and Amanda is based on de Rossi herself - in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that was her true personality on display. But all this says something about the filmmaker too - writing and making a film about how your friend/s love/s you, secretly, in your absence - almost like the filmmaker has a deep need to be loved, seeking the validation that comes with it. At the very least, I can relate to that.

If you have read this blog for any substantial amount of time, you'd know that Joel Lamangan isn't exactly my favorite filmmaker. While he did make a couple of decent movies in the nineties, his present output, while prolific, leaves much to be desired. It is with that thought that I begin this "review" of his latest film Silab, a film that is thoroughly baffling, a film that transcends logic or reason, copping elements from older, better films and creating this soup of unintelligible garbage.

The story is about an OFW who comes home after a long absence. His wife is happy to see him and eager to make another child (why she'd want another child given their financial situation is off, but I'm not here to judge.) OFW husband doesn't want that. Frustrated sexually by her husband's unwillingness to reciprocate, she seduces her husband's friend, and they do the sexy stuff. But OFW husband and his friend have secrets that they don't want to reveal to anyone else...

The film evokes sexy films of decades past, but somehow makes it gaudier, trashier, and thoroughly unsexy. The main characters aren't really people, but more like tropes injected into mannequins; singular character traits that don't add up to anything meaningful. The film also has a penchant for plot points that don't go anywhere: in one scene, husband's friend (I don't care to know their names) sees that a cat is chowing on his breakfast. Any normal, sane person would try to scare the cat away with a loud sound. This guy? He shoots the cat with a fucking gun. No one in the small community hears the gunshots (or maybe they're used to random gunshots in the morning) and the gun isn't brought up again later. In another scene, horny wife is boning this random bald dude. She doesn't finish, and bald dude is upset (jeez, just jack off man) so in response she pours boiling water on his peepee. That plot point isn't brought up again, bald dude doesn't show up later to arrest horny wife for assault, and it ends up irrelevant to the bigger plot.

In many other scenes, the characters are either inconsistent or don't act like normal human beings. In one scene, wife wants the D and seduces her husband. Husband is pragmatic and refuses. Later, after getting drunk, husband wants the V and she... rejects him? This is what she wants, isn't it? She slaps him twice and leaves him as he slumps down crying like the pathetic character that he is. Let's not forget the film's overt racism towards horny Arabs, as that's apparently still a thing in 2021.

I can go on for a few more paragraphs, but I won't waste any more of your time. If you need a good wank, just watch porn or use your imagination. The people who made this film either didn't do the latter, or did it too much without thought to what comes next.

I don't really have much to say about Darryl Yap's Ang Babaeng Walang Pakiramdam, and that might be the film's greatest problem. Without all the filler and padding, the film has just enough substance as one of his Vincentiment shorts, which is in itself not enough.

Perhaps those used to Yap's penchant for deliberately being offensive or confrontational to the audience (including a complete lack of sensitivity to the issues at hand) will expect the main character's condition to be used for laughs. It isn't - instead it is the disability of the main supporting character (played by Jerald Napoles) that is used for comedy.

Instead, the protagonist's condition is turned into the punchline of an 83 minute long joke. The film doesn't feel like anything beyond its central idea - the idea of a woman who cannot feel who suddenly feels love. Yap's treatment of the material doesn't make the main character human, she feels like a prop. It's the same thing with his other film Tililing, and in both films there is a preoccupation with an idea without considering all the other things that make a movie work.

In Paglaki Ko, Gusto Kong Maging Pornstar, a dying man wants Ara Mina (who plays a semi-fictionalized version of herself) to make another sexy film. She does so, and recruits three actresses who were known for acting in sexy films to help train a new sexy star.

From the get-go, I find the title to be a bit of a problem. There is a distinction between outright porn and a sexy movie, and treating the latter like the former diminishes the latter. While it could be argued that sexy movies were often made with titillation in mind, the content is far less explicit than actual porn - and nevertheless, some of these films are rife with sociopolitical commentary not present in their porn counterparts. Perhaps the most notable exception to the explicitness of the content would be the "pene" movies of the 1980s that showed unsimulated sex -  though of the four main sexy actresses in this film, only Alma Moreno had a career at that time; sexy movies of the 1990s and early 2000s were different beasts entirely in terms of tone and content.

But I digress. The story behind Paglaki Ko, Gusto Kong Maging Pornstar is almost non-existent; the few story elements that exist in the film can be removed to the film's benefit. In fact, some of the best scenes in the film are the ones that are unscripted and involve little to no involvement from the director - those scenes are fascinating little glimpses into a facet of Philippine movie history that not a lot of people talk about today. It would have been interesting to see the trajectories of these ladies' careers - including a frank discussion about  exploitation and abuse within the industry - but of course the film doesn't care about any of that.

To be fair, the film does a (decent? maybe just adequate) job in trying to humanize its four characters. But anyone else is either underdeveloped, one dimensional, a caricature, or at worst, just a prop for the story to move forward which is not very surprising given who is in charge.

That said, perhaps the worst movie I've seen in this batch of movies is Yam Laranas' Death of a Girlfriend. This Rashomon like tale about, well, a dead girl and the men who might have killed her is nothing new, full of cliches, and predictable from the first minute. It doesn't help that the film is full of cringey vignettes featuring the girl and her boyfriend. There's a reason for this cringeyness, but that doesn't excuse the fact that a viewer has to go through it to experience the rest of the story.

While it's more technically accomplished than three of the five films I've talked about today, It's simply the kind of film that I don't care about anymore. There are too many of these kinds of films for my taste, using a woman's death as some sort of twist. Even Rashomon considered the victim's point of view, and that was seventy years ago. Here, we don't really get to know the titular girlfriend at all; only the fact that she is now a corpse, and a means to tell a story that honestly didn't need to be told.

notes on A Girl + A Guy

 

In the Simpsons season 7 episode 24, Abraham Simpson, Homer's father, tells his teenage son: 

"I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was. Now what I'm with isn't it, and what's it seems weird and scary to me, and it'll happen to you, too."

It's a sobering, scary thought. As children grow older and the gap between generations begins to increase, what's in the here and now feels more alien and distant. Granted, people will still act upon their basic wants and needs - sex, companionship, living (or trying to live) with dignity - those things are not in doubt. The difference lies in the ways in which we act upon those things and the ways in which we react to those things. Our approach to interacting with others has changed compared to, say, a decade ago - sometimes in subtle ways, sometimes in profound ways.

The end credits for Erik Matti's latest film is a dedication to the filmmakers' children, and it is immediately clear to me that this is not an upper middle class youth film in the style of Gino Santos' early works, nor is it a wistful exploration of how the youth comes of age like in Glenn Barit's Cleaners. This film is Erik Matti's attempt at making a youth film - and through it, an attempt at understanding his childrens' generation. Although some of the characteristics of his generation leak onto the finished product, for the most part  the film doesn't feel like it is an appropriation of youth culture, but rather an exploration of it. It helps that the film's screenwriters are part of the generation Matti is exploring, and with this film he surrounds himself with younger collaborators.

The film's narrative meanders from place to place, telling the stories of its titular two protagonists in little pieces. It isn't as structured as many are accustomed to, and in a way it works. There is no definitive beginning or end, just things that either peter out over time or end in figurative and emotional violence.

Marketing for the film may have you believe that these two will end up with each other romantically, but that doesn't really happen. They don't formally meet until the middle of the film and their paths diverge from there. The building of their friendship hits a roadblock in the second half, which also stands for a major shift in the story. In this second half, the two protagonists' lives are put on hold thanks to the pandemic. What felt like an ever-moving, dynamic lifestyle comes to a complete standstill. It is here, far from the first half's forced raunchiness, where things come into perspective and A Girl + A Guy comes into its own. It honestly feels like a completely different movie. The film becomes introspective, looking back at what now feels like a completely distant past. 

The film's two protagonists are flawed human beings, but their life paths are different, the film treating their individual character development arcs in different ways. Arguably, it's the girl's story of self actualization that feels more fleshed out. With the guy, he aimlessly moves from hookup to hookup, screwing his way through life, until it doesn't work anymore. That in itself is okay (at least, it's a story that's been explored many times before), but there isn't a lot of follow through on the consequences of his actions. For example, a subplot regarding the ambiguities of sexual consent in certain situations is touched upon then unceremoniously dropped after the events of the second half, and the character doesn't think about it ever again. (One might think that this subplot is less about understanding the youth and more about the filmmaker trying to inject personal beliefs unto the work, but your interpretation is as good as mine.)

Perhaps the film would have been better served as a series, where there is more space for characters and plotlines to breathe, rather than be locked into a feature film format. With a streaming service like Upstream.ph, it's definitely doable. As it is, however, while I don't doubt A Girl + A Guy's sincerity, its many flaws prevent me from thoroughly enjoying it.