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Boses
English Title: Voices
Additional Language: English
Year of Release: 2008
Director: Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil
Screenwriters: Froilan Medina & Rody Vera
Producers: Cinemalaya & Erasto Films In Cooperation With UNICEF, Casa San Miguel, Department of Social Welfare and Development, Council for the Welfare of Children Secretariat, National Commission for Culture and the Arts, & Film Development Council of the Philippines
Cast: Julian Duque, Coke Bolipata, Ricky Davao, Cherry Pie Picache, Meryll Soriano, Tala Santos, Carl John Barrameda, Mailes Kanapi, Soliman Cruz
Seven-year-old Onyok is taken away from his abusive father by a social worker before being brought to a shelter. Unable to speak due to a damaged larynx, the boy meets Ariel, the brother of Amanda, the shelter’s owner and director. As Ariel teaches Onyok how to play the violin, they (and Amanda) realize that the arts can be a means to recover from trauma—not just of the victim but of everyone else touched by his situation.
Advocacy filmmaking never acquired serious attention in the Philippine context, and for good reason: it was hijacked and exploited by the Marcoses’ all-too-clever martial-law dispensation. This film restores the original ideals of the practice and demonstrates, via its intimate understanding of the dramatic potential underlying art-as-therapy methods, how effectively it could move people to strong responses, if not to action. The unmentioned assumption, however, is that the people behind the project had better be gifted with critical and self-aware skills in order to figure out what to do with the conventions of advocacy practice, which would otherwise drift toward sentimental and didactic conclusions. As proof, films produced in the wake of Boses’s success foundered badly despite their best intentions, while Boses itself managed to generate sufficient word-of-mouth and repeat viewing to become, circa the early 2010s, one of the festival circuit’s most financially successful digital-indie projects.
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Indigo Child
Year of Release: 2016
Director: Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil (with stage direction by José Estrella)
Screenwriter: Rody Vera
Based on his stage play
Producers: University of the Philippines Film Institute, Ladies Who Launch, Bantayog ng mga Bayani, Rey Agapay
Cast: Skyzx Labastilla, Rafael Tibayan
Jerome, now a young man, is perplexed by the situation he finds himself in. His mother, Felisa, tends to act out her traumatic experience as an activist in the underground resistance during the martial-law dictatorship of Ferdinand E. Marcos. Because of her unstable condition, she occasionally requires medical intervention and becomes nearly impossible to communicate with. Jerome has to summon inner reserves of strength and filial devotion in order to fully comprehend the unspeakable horrors that his mother once suffered, from which she never seems able to recover.
Millennials may conceivably hesitate to consider critical presentations of the dictatorship of Ferdinand E. Marcos because of the implication that these involve returning to a past that they never experienced in the first place. (The authoritarian terms that President Rodrigo Duterte proffers appear to be more forward-looking, in contrast—which may partly explain his appeal to the otherwise apolitical younger generation, who consequently became more receptive to the Marcos scion’s presidential aspiration.) Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil conducts her film and media practice with a concern for what shifts the future may bring. Her contribution to the call to warn contemporary audiences about the dangers inherent in a tyrannical system anticipated the limits that the long-running pandemic era would impose on media production and consumption: tight budget, intimate setting, interactive inserts, dialogue-driven arguments presented as an exchange between two players in the shortest acceptable playing time for a full-length feature. Indigo Child may sound like a throwback to the theatrical origins of early silent and sound cinema, until we take a look around at the online arrangements that have been leading to shifts in audiovisual formats, from direct address to accidental revelations in domiciliated situations: the trauma in Rody Vera’s narrative, essentially a one-act two-hander, derives as much from the child’s realization of the severity of the torture his mother experienced as from, as Vera once expressed it, “her constant denial [of her past experience] that eventually drives her to madness.” The horror plays out not as malignant external forces (the way that typical cautionary texts on the evils of fascism tend to relate). Instead it begins with one of those seriocomic ironies that families deploy when they need to cope with existing difficulties: the son ascribes his choice of college course, electrical engineering, to his mother’s continuing electroconvulsive therapy program, and proceeds from there to increasingly distressing intimate revelations, culminating with an unexpected connection with historical reality. The fact that the historical experience in question is even more horrendous is left for us to discover on our own, proof that an antifascist text does not always have to replicate the full extent of the cruelties that it references: the end credits play over actual Marcos-era protest footage then lead to the artists and producers relating the text to their personal experience before an unseen audience presumably confronting this aspect of history for the first time. It may be less effective than ensuring solid liberal education for all citizens, but Pinas cinema has long been more influential than the local system, and this is one of several instances when its impact deserves to be upheld.
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