Book Texts – Non-Film Reviews

Home Sweet Home

In My Father’s House
Playwright Elsa Martinez Coscolluela
Directed by Tony Mabesa

As an extra-active in-house editor for the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines (ECP), I was once assigned to the screening committee of the third (and last) scriptwriting contest. Only two winners were chosen, both of which were endorsed to the board of judges by none other than yours truly. The inside news, however, was that the preferred top-prize winner was disqualified on a double technicality: not only did the script proposal require a more-than-modest budget (for which the consideration of a few other entries would have to be set aside), it would also have duplicated the themes and setting of the first ECP production, Oro, Plata, Mata. Flashforward to the present, when one of the contest’s judges, out of a refusal to allow the ECP’s demise to negate its noteworthy aims, convinces the writer of the said screenplay to revise her work for the medium out of which he has made a lifetime career: the theater.

Like Oro, Plata, Mata, In My Father’s House has seen rough commercial sailing. And if we take an optimistic course and regard its ultimate destination as the celluloid product it was originally intended to be, then its odyssey from judges’ favorite to future film product through the legitimate stage may well be one of the most unusual transitions in contemporary local culture. To be sure, In My Father’s House stands several cuts above the disturbing succession of stage plays that actually aim for ultimate preservation on film (or even just video, via television). Our local playwriting contests have much to answer for in this case; works are judged according to how they read, not how they may be performed, and in several depressing instances writers who employed misappropriated cinematic techniques tended to impress their respective jurors, who should have known better.

I hope I don’t sound too condemnatory in pointing out that these cinematically obsessed playwrights were in a sense the predecessors of our so-called independent film practitioners, who dabble in media or formats apparently alien from the mainstream movie industry, but actually aim for stable long-term employment within (as evidenced in their output as well as the number who grab too eagerly at opportunities for commercial film assignments). Nothing wrong with having to survive, I submit, except that sometimes the struggle has resulted all too often in a hierarchism of media forms and assignments: this here’s a mere short film (or play or article), it could get me some attention so I could get away with a little slothful artisanship – after all, this isn’t the big time … yet.

Hence my sense of appreciation and gratitude for In My Father’s House. The play’s film-script origins are still detectable, particularly in the inordinate number of blackouts (equivalent to the film medium’s fadeouts), but the whole presentation has amounted to a cherishable and well-grounded discourse on the dehumanizing effects of war on the best intentions of those caught up in it. The story details the plight of a Negros-based family, chronicling the members’ confrontation with the realities of the Japanese occupation from the start of the war until the impending liberation (or, as per Renato Constantino, the re-occupation) of the country by American forces. The siblings find themselves in opposing camps, though hardly by the passive nature of their characters: one realizes firsthand the effectiveness of the enemy’s brutality and decides to collaborate to preclude whatever further harm may be committed against his loved ones, while another is outraged by the very same reports, though from a comfortable distance, and decides to join the guerrilla movement.

The worst that the invading forces visit upon the family is the occupation of their residence by an officer, who is never seen; instead he is represented by his clown of a deputy. In the end the tragedy that befalls the family is directly caused by the guerrilla offering to save his collaborator-brother but inadvertently betraying him to a rival unit. An acknowledgment of classical traditions pervades the entire production, with deaths occurring offstage and the action being continually summarized and assessed by the survivors. The only onstage tragedy, the suicide of the fiancée who could endure repeated rape by the Japanese officer but not the contempt of her guerrilla-lover, serves to maintain the essential context of the drama – i.e., that the enemy, no matter how harmless in appearance, is capable, on a near-bestial level, of the civilized but still-harmful actuations of his captive hosts, and that in a sense this doesn’t make him any different from them after all.

Such perceptions about the wartime behavior of the bourgeoisie could only have come from finely observed and fully felt experience, and whatever the arguments against the dangers of romanticism, there ought to be room for such theses in the first place, the better to form possible answers from. In My Father’s House can be taken on its own, with the reservations (and then some) I already mentioned, but it can also be appreciated as a creative inspiration’s long (and unfinished) journey to realization. I suggest viewing it as a companion piece to Oro, Plata, Mata, with the notion of the voyeuristic peek into the bourgeoisie’s not-so-discreet charms this time replaced by an Areopagitica of sorts, a plea for tolerance and soberness from a people who are still figuring out what to do with themselves.

[First published December 2, 1987, in National Midweek]

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Time and Again

Translating Time: Cinema, the Fantastic, and Temporal Critique
By Bliss Cua Lim
(Durham: Duke University Press, 2009)

No less than feminist film and trauma specialist E. Ann Kaplan has hailed Translating Time as one of the most influential books in the field of cinema studies, a distinction made more remarkable by the fact that Bliss Cua Lim’s volume has only recently been published. Kaplan cites Lim’s achievement in drawing on “genre theory, feminist film research, postcolonialism, and feminist cine-psychoanalysis to think through the meanings that emerge in films about fantasy” (2009: 190). Well on its way to solidifying its early stature as a classic in the field, Translating Time bears the prestigious imprint of a John Hope Franklin Book Award, an annual honor given by Duke University Press to four books selected from the hundred-plus titles that it publishes every year. (Personal disclosure: Lim and I were classmates and fellow Fulbright scholars in graduate school.)

Prior to Translating Time, Lim was known for her volumes of poetry in her native Philippines, and her expertise in this mode of expression enhances the present book’s correlation of seemingly disparate concerns, unified by the much-vilified yet inevitably overriding element of pleasure – the same factor that links Translating Time with an impressive array of feminist predecessors, from Laura Mulvey (who, in calling for the destruction of pleasure in Classical Hollywood, motivated an entire generation of scholars to revaluate its importance and function) down to the present and, from what we can discern from current media studies trends, far into the future.

Translating Time reworks Henri Bergson’s philosophical critique of so-called homogeneous time, regarded as the primary ideological mechanism for the historical ascendancy of European modernity, by infusing it with a postcolonial critique. Lim recounts how, starting with the late thirteenth-century invention of precise timepieces, homogeneous time became ensconced as the standard universal method of reckoning temporal experience, pervading all available areas of human endeavor within and outside Europe via the mechanisms of state control and colonial expansion. Crucially, she argues that homogeneous time overlays human societies with the twinned processes of measuring everyone, without exception, according to the timeline of Eurocentric development, as well as excluding from historical significance any form of anachronism – thus resulting, for example, in the refusal to accept people falling within certain categories – such as the “savage,” the “primitive,” the “superstitious,” and the “premodern” – as belonging to the present. Homogeneous time means that people who exist, as it were, in periods marked as “past” by Eurocentric development cannot be considered of this moment, unless they were “modernized” one way or another. This reminds me of one of the standard arguments that links the colonizer with the rapist: the purported victim was merely being claimed by patriarchy in order to protect it (the nation) or her (the woman) from other claimants, as well as to provide it or her with the benefits of modernist progress presumably unavailable to those cursed with “backwardness.” The narrative of the centuries-long quest of homogeneous time for global preeminence would sound fantastic in itself if it were told to, say, a Renaissance-era subject or a contemporary Third-World tribesperson. Lim’s retelling captures the appropriately fantastic quality of the now-seemingly-inexorable advance of this phenomenon.

Lim initiates her departure from Bergson’s critique by propounding a concept of immiscible times, which she defines as “multiple times that never quite dissolve into the code of modern time consciousness, discrete temporalities incapable of attaining homogeneity with or full incorporation into a uniform chronological present” (12). As she puts it:

an anti-colonial critique of homogeneous time points out that the modern notion of progress and its corollary, the accusation of noncontemporaneousness, translate multiple ways of inhabiting the world into a single, homogeneous time. This translation is arguably a deliberate mistranslation in that the allochronic gesture – the appraisal of the other as an anachronism – served as a potent temporal justification for the colonial project. (83)

Tellingly, inasmuch as Bergson had prematurely denounced film as the culmination of the popular perception of homogeneous time, Lim finds useful samples of immiscible times imbricated in the cinema of the fantastic. By her own admission, she incorporates Bergson further by resisting him at this juncture, specifically his dismissal of cinema for its collusion with homogenized, spatialized time, as well as its deceptive re-presentation of duration as an atomized succession of still moments.

Lest one acquire the misimpression that Lim’s espousal of immiscible heterogeneous times could play into the cynical religious revivalism of conservative political leaders (as exemplified in the U.S. Republican Party’s deplorable turn-of-the-millennium strategies), she takes the trouble to point to examples of what we could obversely term real fantasies, like the studies of Jean and John Comaroff on the “enchantments of capital” (2002: 782-87) in the Third World, wherein “amid glaring asymmetries . . . the enigmatic appearance of ‘wealth without work’ . . . is felt by the disenfranchised in particular to be opaque, occult, spectral” (135).

Translating Time is exceptional as an extended study not only for what its so-far mostly western appreciators prize it for, but also for what mainly subaltern scholars will be able to perceive: Lim’s thorough immersion in postcolonial culture, to a point beyond mere familiarity, well within the realm of (for want of more appropriately academic terminology) sheer and unadulterated passion. A disheartening number of cultural studies scholars in particular, once they realize the exploitative potential of the Philippines’s unique status as the U.S.’s only ex-/neo-/post-colony, tend to indulge in the country’s popular culture only to come up with undeniably well-meaning but erroneous, if not preposterous or potentially injurious, interpretations of local phenomena. Perhaps the most famous example was Fredric Jameson’s one-time incursion into Third-World, including Philippine, popular culture in The Geopolitical Aesthetic (1992), whose long list of Filipino objectors included Lim (1993).

While explicating her take on Bergson (partly by way of Gilles Deleuze – on which more later), Lim proceeds to survey the fantastic in cinema, beginning with a Philippine “Second Golden Age” prestige production, Mike de Leon’s Itim (1976), coursing through Etienne-Jules Marey’s proto-filmic motion studies and Fatimah Tobing Rony’s personal experimental film On Cannibalism (1994). Her bravura readings of the recent aswang (segmented viscera-sucking monster) horror-film cycle of the Peque Gallaga and Lorenzo Reyes directorial team (commencing with their eponymous 1992 blockbuster), and the female specters of Butch Perez’s Haplos (1982) and Hong Kong filmmaker Stanley Kwan’s Yin ji kau (English title Rouge, 1987), are models of close textual inspections that enrich the too-scant literature on these largely overlooked marvels of Asian film-genre productions, even as she painstakingly develops her notions on the values and limitations of immiscibilities in subaltern cinema.

After duly disclosing how early colonial chroniclers insisted on the feminine nature of the aswang as a way of demonizing the baylan (pre-Hispanic female shaman), Lim proceeds to discuss the politicized peasantry’s conflation of World War II’s Japanese occupation army with the contemporary Philippine Constabulary (hence Haplos’s always-already doomed revenant), and acknowledges CIA operative Edward G. Lansdale’s (1972, rpt. 1991) possibly fictional and definitely self-aggrandizing psy-war exploitation of the aswang myth in his counter-insurgency operations in the Philippine countryside. More to the point of feminist interest, Lim owns up to the necessarily patriarchal containment which Haplos’s and Rouge’s resolutions build toward, yet insists on pointing out how the real-life female characters find themselves attracted to their supernatural rivals, to the point of even fusing with the specter, as in the case of the ending of Haplos.

In advancing toward Rouge, in fact, Lim might initially appear to be falling into the same predicament of engaging with the unfamiliar that scholars like she and I excoriate overeager outsiders for. Yet Lim’s differences – as woman, as Chinay (Chinese-Filipina), as gender and queer theory specialist – secure for her an enviable position from which to read not just the spectrally inflected relations between Hong Kong as a former crown colony (not quite a nation yet not fully striving for integration) and the People’s Republic of China, but also the role that the larger regional area of East Asia has played vis-à-vis the cannibalization of the Asian horror cycle by Hollywood. By looking at the trajectory of particular examples like Takashi Shimizu’s Ju-on (2002) as well as its U.S. remake, The Grudge (Shimizu, 2004), she manages to point out how such a ground-breaking scholar of national cinema as Andrew Higson (1989) “remains regrettably one-sided” (230) in discussing the role of Hollywood:

His argument emphasizes Hollywood’s contributions to national cinema, especially national-popular cinema, but he fails to mention the converse: Hollywood’s debts to other national cinemas, its founding reliance on émigré talent, its appropriation of aesthetic hallmarks, its practices of borrowing and remaking, and its eye on foreign markets. (230)

Just as it had done with earlier film trends in Europe, Hollywood’s appropriation of story material and qualities associated with Asian genre cinemas results in a deracination via the process of transforming “mark[s] of innovation, of originality, of newness or novelty greeted by vigorous, profitable audience demand” into signs of iterability (222-23) that result in a “softening of contrast, the quickly accomplished reduction of the distance between generic innovation and generic repetition” (223).

As a detailed demonstration of a home-grown achievement whose qualities would prove immiscible when (as it actually turned out) a Hollywood producer attempted to remake it, Lim discusses a Korean horror film, Kim Ji-woon’s Janghwa, Hongryeon (English title A Tale of Two Sisters, 2003), an experience that “slowly unfurls its secrets, yielding narrative clues and formal motifs whose significances are only apprehended on repeated viewing” (243). The scandal of the DreamWorks remake (Charles and Thomas Guard’s appositely titled The Uninvited, 2009, repudiated by Kim), wherein the production pitch “was based only upon having watched the trailer – not the entire source film – beforehand” (304n), thus resulting in divergent second halves between the two versions, is aggravated by the fact that such a supercilious approach was never even exposed and regarded as a scandal in the first place.

Lim concludes her book by recounting similar predicaments experienced by Bergson and a subaltern scholar who explored a postcolonial critique of homogeneous time: Bergson described how, in the midst of writing Time and Free Will, “the hour strikes on a neighboring clock but my inattentive ear does not perceive it” (1889, trans. 2001: 127; qtd.: 247); Dipesh Chakrabarty (2000: 102-03), from another place and period, recounted how an ironically sympathetic historian had wound up distorting a rebel leader’s account of political agency in an anti-colonial uprising, only because the leader had expressed his tribe’s action in supernatural terms. Given such lapses in even the most well-intentioned people’s best efforts, Lim echoes Elizabeth Grosz’s call to restore ontology “to its rightful place at the center of knowledges and social practices, [inasmuch as] the ways in which ontology has been previously conceptualized – as static, fixed, composed of universal principles or ideals, indifferent to history, particularity, or change – require transformation and revitalization” (2005: 5; qtd.: 251).

Within the specific area (film studies) that it sets as its donnée, Translating Time fills a gap noticeable in the otherwise densely constructed work of Gilles Deleuze, who had set out in two volumes (1983 and 1985, trans. 1986 and 1989) to reclaim Bergson for film, but whose critique of homogeneous time’s insidious valorization of European modernity is severely blunted by his use of canonical samples from art cinema (mostly European, with the usual Hollywood favorites such as Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane [1941], the standard all-time critics’ favorite, thrown in). As a cineaste-come-lately, Deleuze may have been understandably swept up by what David Bordwell (1994) has termed the “standard version of stylistic history” and its aftermath, in which the aesthetic innovations that radicalized film style originated in Europe; such a formulation required the existence of Classical Hollywood film as a mode of practice that had dominated world cinema for the better half of the previous century – and which indeed was challenged and eventually overturned roughly by mid-century Euro art-film practice. What Deleuze could not overcome was the limited range of his subjective universe of western film culture, so when he in effect celebrates the deconstruction of Classical Hollywood film language enabled by filmmakers who could trace their inspiration, if not their training, to such movements as Italian neo-realism, the French New Wave, and avant-garde filmmaking, he is actually upholding a higher stage of modernism over an earlier one – in effect locking his argument within the same sphere of Eurocentrism that he had sought to contest.

Several other types of cinema whose recuperation is being spearheaded mostly by feminist critics – trash, porn, camp, in short anything subsumable under “pleasure” including even select Classical Hollywood titles – have already been reinscribed, with varying degrees of success, as emblems of transgression in popular culture. With Translating Time, Lim manages to liberate Bergsonian critique by convincingly demonstrating how resistance to an ultimate western temporal ideal finds its most useful samples in similarly pleasurable products that originate in places far removed from the center. In doing so, she contributes her share to a valiant multi-generational project, one initiated by Bergson himself over a century ago but only recently being tackled in earnest, in acknowledgment of struggles by European and non-European peoples that have somehow persisted all the way to the present. On the one hand, one may argue that this proves that homogeneous time is an exceedingly difficult system to dismantle (and in fact just now I remember telling Lim, when she first described her project to me, that she was confronting an ultimately impossible task). On the other hand, it may be precisely the excessive, extravagant nature of the challenge that has yielded material as wondrous and forward-looking as the works of the authors Lim has engaged, with her own volume taking its rightful place in a deservingly exalted but still-too-short list.

[First published Winter 2009 in Asian Journal of Women’s Studies]

Works Cited

Bergson, Henri. Time and Free Will: An Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness. 1889. Trans. F.L. Pogson. Mineola, NY: Dover, 2001.

Bordwell, David. On the History of Film Style. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1997.

Chakrabarty, Dipesh. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000.

Comaroff, Jean, and John Comaroff. “Alien-Nation: Zombies, Immigrants, and Millennial Capitalism.” South Atlantic Quarterly 101.4 (2002): 779-805.

De Leon, Mike, dir. (1976), Itim [Black / Rites of May]. Scr. Clodualdo del Mundo Jr. and Gil Quito. Cinema Artists, 1976.

Deleuze, Gilles. Cinema 1: The Movement-Image and Cinema 2: The Time-Image. 1983 and 1985. Trans. Hugh Tomlinson, Barbara Habberjam, and Robert Galeta. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986 and 1989.

Gallaga, Peque, and Lore Reyes, dirs. (1992), Aswang [Viscera Sucker]. Scr. Pen P. Medina and Jerry Lopez Sineneng. Regal Films, 1992.

Grosz, Elizabeth. Time Travels: Feminism, Nature, Power. Durham: Duke University Press, 2005.

Guard, Charles, and Thomas Guard, dirs. The Uninvited. Scr. Craig Rosenberg, Doug Miro, and Carlo Bernard. DreamWorks SKG, Cold Spring Pictures, MacDonald/Parkes Productions, Montecity Picture Co., Vertigo Entertainment, Medien 5 Filmproduktion, 2009.

Higson, Andrew. “The Concept of National Cinema.” Screen 30.4 (1989): 36-46.

Jameson, Fredric. The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992.

Kaplan, E. Ann. “Toward Interdisciplinary Film Studies.” Cinema Journal 49.1 (2009): 188-91.

Kim Ji-woon, dir. & scr. Janghwa, Hongryeon [A Tale of Two Sisters]. B.O.M. Film Productions & Masulpiri Films, 2003.

Kwan, Stanley, dir. Yin ji kau [Rouge]. Scr. Lillian Lee. Golden Harvest and Golden Way Films Ltd., 1987.

Lansdale, Edward G. In the Midst of Wars: An American’s Mission to Southeast Asia. 1972. New York: Fordham University Press, 1991.

Lim, Bliss Cua [as Felicidad C. Lim]. “Perfumed Nightmare and the Perils of Jameson’s ‘New Political Culture.’” Philippine Critical Forum 1.1 (1993): 24-37.

Perez, Antonio Jose, dir. Haplos [Caress]. Scr. Ricardo Lee. Mirick Films International, 1982.

Rony, Fatimah Tobing, dir. & scr. On Cannibalism. Women Make Movies, 1994.

Shimizu, Takashi, dir. & scr. Ju-on [Ju-on: The Grudge]. Pioneer LDC, Nikkatsu, Oz Co., & Xanadeux Co., 2002.

———, dir. (2004), The Grudge. Scr. Stephen Susco. Senator International, Ghost House Pictures, Vertigo Entertainment, Renaissance Pictures, & Fellah Pictures, 2004.

Welles, Orson, dir. Citizen Kane. Scr. Herman J. Mankiewicz & Orson Welles. Mercury Productions & RKO Radio Pictures, 1941.

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Disorder & Constant Sorrow

Subversive Lives: A Family Memoir of the Marcos Years
By Susan F. Quimpo & Nathan Gilbert Quimpo, with David Ryan F. Quimpo, Norman F. Quimpo, Emilie Mae Q. Wickett, Lillian F. Quimpo, Elizabeth Q. Bulatao, Caren Q. Castañeda, Jun F. Quimpo, & Maria Cristina Pargas-Bawagan
(Manila: Anvil Publishing, 2012)

In the process of finalizing the current issue of Kritika Kultura, Ateneo’s online journal, on Ishmael Bernal’s Manila by Night, I went over some of the notes I took during the too-few interviews I had with the director. One of the statements he made, that our stories as a people are better told as a collective, became the basis of several articles and an entire dissertation I wrote on the film and its author. The format, which we can call by its description “multiple-character,” is a tricky one to pull off. Seemingly “social” fictions like Gone with the Wind or, closer to home, Noli Me Tangere typically begin with a large group of characters, then reduce the narrative threads until they focus on a hero, sometimes with a romantic interest or against an antihero, or (in the case of GWTW) a love triangle—which, by presenting a character torn between two options, invites singular identification and thus maintains the heroic arrangement.

The multicharacter film format actually originated in literature, so it would not be surprising to find it deployed more readily in fiction and theater, where the “star” demands of cinema can be more easily ignored. The more ambitious samples, like Manila by Night (and Bernal’s avowed model, Nashville), succeed in portraying, via the interaction of its characters, an abstract, singular, social character that embodies the conflicts, frustrations, and aspirations that the milieu text’s figures represent. The unexpected delight of my current Pinoy reading experience, in this wise, was in recognizing several of these qualities (and then some) in a recent book, titled Subversive Lives. Listing Susan F. Quimpo and Nathan Gilbert Quimpo as authors, the Anvil publication actually comprises contributions from the Quimpo siblings and the widow of their brother.

The Quimpos achieved fame (or notoriety, depending on one’s perspective) for several of the siblings having participated in the anti-dictatorship movement during the martial-law regime of Ferdinand Marcos. Since the only genuine opposition during most of this period was provided by the outlawed Communist underground, the Quimpo family, by its association, underwent dramatic upheavals, acute heartbreak, and occasional but still-too-rare moments of grace that would appear almost fantastic had the book been announced as a fiction. The fact that these events actually happened, related by the individuals who directly experienced them, provides the reader with a sense of how irreparably damaging authoritarianism has always been for our particular national experience.

I remember how, as a student at the state university, I could always rely on the fact that my smartest classmates would be sympathetic, if not involved outright, with student-activist causes—in sharp contrast with the situation I later observed as a teacher. Subversive Lives provides a panoramic chronicle of how the militarized dictatorship, profitable only to foreign and mercenary local business and religious interests, upheld the worst legacies of colonial education and magic-patriarchal morality: backward thugs armed, fed, and protected by the machinery of an irredeemably corrupted state were allowed to wield life-or-death mastery over the very people in whom, by virtue of their capacity to exercise discernment, creativity, and determination, the future of the nation would have resided.

The Quimpo children, in this respect, may be regarded as representative of the country’s best and brightest, had they emerged in another place, another time. Starting out as stereotypical overachievers, the only source of pride of their financially distressed parents, they grew up just when the storm clouds of tyranny were gathering; having moved to a cramped apartment near the presidential palace, they were initially witnesses, then active participants, in the increasingly violent protest actions then taking place in their neighborhood.

One of the most powerful dramatic undercurrents in the book is how the Quimpos’ parents coped with the spectacle of several of their children giving up their scholarships, then their bright futures, by moving from school dropouts to wanted figures, hunted down and tortured by the military. One of the sons recollects his reconciliation with his father at the latter’s deathbed, and his story suddenly breaks free of the storytelling mode, addressing his father in the present as if he were still alive, and as if no reader would wonder: “Talk to me. I’m your son…. Why don’t you express all your heartaches, disappointments, and frustrations?” The siblings never shake free the realization that the paths they chose were not what their parents had hoped for them. If their parents lived long enough, they would have seen that the Quimpo children had been able to attain impressive career trajectories, covering several continents and participating in impactful projects (of which the book serves as group memoir) that would have been the envy of the more privileged families with their utterly predictable and vision-impoverished choices.

Even the sister who had opted for life as an Opus Dei numerary found inevitable parallels between her Order and the fascist system that her siblings were struggling against. The story of the retrieval of their brother’s body is hers to tell, and one would probably wind up smiling, in the face of the long-anticipated heartbreak, at how she had managed to muster enough reserves of strength to confront and intimidate the military officers who felt like aggravating her and her grieving female companions, just for the heck of it. When, famished after the confrontation, one of them mistakenly brings one too many orders of Coke and the driver of their vehicle innocently asks whom the spare bottle is for, then they turn toward their brother’s body and cry all over again, I could not help turning as well toward the best moments in Pinoy cinema, where our film-authors are so casually able to incite these tender combinations of humor and warmth amid overwhelming sadness.

The book ends with a controversy that has shaken up, and continues to do so, the Philippine revolutionary movement. The Quimpos who were then still involved were major participants, and express the opinion that the leadership they challenged had taken on qualities of the dictatorship that they had fought against and (in a sense) succeeded in ousting. Like the best Filipino multicharacter texts, Manila by Night foremost among them, Subversive Lives is sprawling, occasionally meandering, sometimes indulgent, and necessarily open-ended. It is also gripping, heartfelt, insightful, and forward-looking, so much so that the aforementioned “flaws” would be a small price to pay for its still-rare literary largesse, just as the Quimpo children’s rebellion has made the country’s journey to a more meaningful present a trip for which we as their witnesses ought to be grateful.

[First published September 18, 2012, as “The Marcos Dictatorship and the Irreparable Damage to a Family and the Filipino Experience” in The FilAm]

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The Novel Pinoy Novel

Si Amapola sa 65 na Kabanata
By Ricky Lee
Quezon City: Philippine Writers Studio Foundation, 2011

The results of the recently concluded American presidential elections seemed guaranteed to make everyone happy—except for the Republican Party and its now less-than-majority supporters. American conservatives could have spared themselves their historic loss if they had taken the trouble to inspect the goings-on in a country their nation had once claimed for itself, the Republic of the Philippines. The admittedly oversimplified lesson that Philippine cultural experience demonstrates is: when conservative values seek to overwhelm a population too dispossessed to have anything to lose, the pushback has the potential to reach radical proportions.

This is my way of assuring myself that a serendipitous sample, Ricky Lee’s recent novel Si Amapola sa 65 na Kabanata (Amapola in 65 Chapters), could only have emerged in a culture that had undergone Old-World colonization followed by successful American experimentations with colonial and neocolonial arrangements, enhanced by the installation of a banana republic-style dictatorship followed by a middle-force uprising, leaving the country utterly vulnerable to the dictates of globalization and unable to recover except by means of exporting its own labor force—which, as it turns out, proved to be an unexpectedly successful way of restoring some developmental sanguinity, some stable growth achieved via the continual trauma of yielding its best and brightest to foreign masters.

Si Amapola is one of those rare works that will fulfill anyone who takes the effort to learn the language in which it is written. A serviceable translation might emerge sooner or later, but the novel’s impressive achievement in commingling a wide variety of so-called Filipino—from formal (Spanish-inflected) Tagalog to urban street slang to class-conscious (and occasionally hilariously broken) Taglish to fast-mutating gay lingo—will more than just provide a sampling of available linguistic options; it will convince the patriotically inclined that the national language in itself is at last capable of staking its claim as a major global literary medium. In practical terms, the message here is: if you know enough of the language to read casually, or enjoy reading aloud with friends or family—run out and get a copy of the book for the holidays. The novels of Lee, only two of them so far, have revived intensive, even obsessive reading in the Philippines, selling in the tens of thousands (in a country where sales of a few hundreds would mark a title as a bestseller), with people claiming to have read them several times over and classrooms and offices spontaneously breaking into unplanned discussions of his fictions; lives get transformed as people assimilate his characters’ personalities, and Lee himself stated that a few couples have claimed to him that their acquaintance started with a mutual admiration of his work.

This is the type of response that, in the recent past, only movies could generate—and the connection may well have been preordained, since Lee had previously made his mark on the popular imagination as the country’s premier screenwriter. The difference between the written word and the filmed script, per Lee, is in the nature of the reader’s participation: film buffs (usually as fans of specific performers) would strive to approximate the costume, performance, and delivery of their preferred characters, while readers would assimilate a novel’s characters, interpreting them in new (literally novel) ways, sometimes providing background and future developments, and even shifting from one personage to another.

Si Amapola affords entire worlds for its readers to inhabit, functioning as the culmination of its author’s attempts to break every perceived boundary in art (and consequently in society) in its pursuit of truth and terror, pain and pleasure. For Lee, the process began with his last few major film scripts (notably for Lino Brocka’s multi-generic Gumapang Ka sa Lusak [Dirty Affair]; 1990) and first emerged in print with his comeback novellette “Kabilang sa mga Nawawala” (Among the Missing; 1988). More than his previous novel Para Kay B (O Kung Paano Dinevastate ng Pag-ibig ang 4 Out of 5 sa Atin) (For B [Or How Love Devastated 4 Out of 5 of Us]; 2008), Si Amapola is a direct descendant of “Kabilang,” at that point the language’s definitive magic-realist narrative.

Despite this stylistic connection, Si Amapola is sui generis, impossible to track because of its fantastically extreme dimensions that abhor any notion of middle ground. The contradictions begin with the title character, a queer cross-dressing performer who possesses two “alters”: Isaac, a macho man (complete with an understandably infatuated girlfriend), and Zaldy, a closeted yuppie. His mother, Nanay Angie, took him home after she found him separated from his baby sister and, notwithstanding the absence of blood relations and any familial connections, raised him (and his other personalities) with more love and acceptance than most children are able to receive from their own “normal” relatives. A policeman named Emil, a fan of real-life Philippine superstar Nora Aunor, then introduces Amapola to his Lola Sepa, a woman who had fallen in love with Andres Bonifacio, the true (also real-life) but tragically betrayed hero of the 19th-century revolution against Spanish colonization. Lola Sepa moved through time, using a then-recent technology—the flush toilet—as her portal, surviving temporal and septic transitions simply because she, like her great-grandchild Amapola, happens to be a manananggal, a self-segmenting viscera-sucking mythological creature.

Already these details suggest issues of personal identity and revolutionary history, high drama and low humor, cinematic immediacy and philosophical discourse, and a melange of popular genres that do not even bother to acknowledge their supposed mutual incompatibilities; if you can imagine, for example, that a pair of manananggal lovers could be so abject and lustful as to engage in monstrous intercourse in mid-air, you can expect that Lee will take you there. The novel’s interlacing with contemporary Philippine politics provides a ludic challenge for those familiar with recent events; those who would rather settle for a rollicking grand time, willing to be fascinated, repulsed, amused, and emotionally walloped by an unmitigated passion for language, country, and the least and therefore the greatest among us, will be rewarded by flesh-and-blood (riven or otherwise) characters enacting a social drama too fantastic to be true, yet ultimately too true to be disavowed.

At the end of the wondrously self-contained narrative, you might be able to look up some related literature on the novel and read about Lee announcing a sequel. Pressed about this too-insistent meta-contradiction of how something that had already ended could manage to persist in an unendurable (because unpredictable) future time, he replied: “Amapola the character exists in two parts. Why then can’t he have two lives?” Nevertheless my advice remains, this time as a warning: get the present book and do not wait for a two-in-one consumption. The pleasure, and the pain, might prove too much to bear by then.

[First published November 9, 2012, as “High Drama and Low Humor in Ricky Lee’s New Fiction about a Cross-Dressing Mananggal” in The FilAm]

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Seeds in the Garden of Letters

The End of National Cinema: Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century
By Patrick F. Campos
(Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2016)

It would be easy to subject a text like Patrick F. Campos’s The End of National Cinema to critical reservation, given the scope of the material and the magnitude of the challenges it sets out to confront.[1] Subtitled Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century, the book is definitely the most voluminous debut publication by any Filipino film practitioner, weighing in at 665 pages (including bibliography and index) plus thirteen preliminary pages. Unlike a few initial film books, however, The End of National Cinema (hereafter ENC) is neither a dramatic work nor a celebrity appreciation; it resembles the more typical product, a compilation of film reviews and criticism—except in this case, what we get is a surprisingly small total of nine articles, ten if we include the similarly lengthy introduction. For 550 compact pages of body text, this works out to an average of fifty-five pages per article, a fact that makes possible one more distinction for the book: it actually is a personal anthology—but of monographs, rather than articles.

An awareness of the complete life cycle of the academic paper might help us better appreciate Campos’s project. An author would typically draft one for a class or seminar, present it at conferences (preferably published in proceedings), submit it to a journal, and offer it afterward to an anthology of similar material; once the author has made a name, she may decide to compile her articles in one volume in order to provide researchers with the equivalent convenience of a one-stop shop for her material. With ENC, Campos in effect skipped the stage of handing out his journal-published papers to appear in various volumes, thus making himself vulnerable to the question of what authority he had in assuming that he could start out in such a grand manner.

At this point I will have to disclose that I recognized two of the ENC articles, the first (post-intro) and the last one, as Campos’s contributions to special journal collections that I had edited. The first, “Ishmael Bernal’s Manila by Night as Thirdspace,” was so innovative and forward-looking that I knew it would make a near-perfect closing piece for the issue. The rest of the chapters deal with auteurs, specifically Mike de Leon in Chapter 2 and Kidlat Tahimik in Chapter 3; the Cinemalaya Philippine Independent Film Festival and its attendant Film Congress in Chapter 4; filmic topographies divided between urban realism in Chapter 5 and rural landscapes in Chapter 6; cinematic imaginaries focused on folklore in Chapter 7; historical memory in Chapter 8; and ghost narratives in Chapter 9. Despite Campos’s disavowal of any linearly constructed design, one can already perceive here some gestures toward expanding the book’s coverage, from traditional local concerns (auteurs and film events) to transnational films and issues. In ENC’s introductory essay, after which the book is titled, Campos articulates his argument that national cinema is at an “end”—not so much in terms of the virtually complete phaseout of celluloid production, but rather in the sense that Philippine cinema can be better understood in relation to political and cultural developments in the larger Southeast Asian region and its interaction with Western-determined and -dominated global cinema. His final deployment of the term “end”—as a call to alertness to the purpose of discourses on national cinema—affirms his claim that ENC was not in itself meant to provide any definitive kind of closure.

In fact, the book best functions as a quite effective starting point for any film devotee who seeks to discover the contemporary concerns of Filipino film scholarship. I would not suggest that the casual reader run through everything in it in one go (although I had to do exactly that in order to provide a review), and Campos, not surprisingly, makes the same recommendation. Yet the act of finishing the chapters in brisk succession allowed me the advantage of drawing up a list of urgent research tasks in my mind, with the pleasure (and, to be honest, the frustration) of finding ENC carefully and methodically tackling each item on the list.

Not every attempt in ENC is as resounding a success as the first chapter, but the ones that work demonstrate Campos’s ability to evaluate a research challenge and formulate a compelling strategy as his response. The Mike de Leon chapter evinces his training in film and literature in his patiently close comparative readings of the director’s output, but his Kidlat Tahimik article breaks down the academically prescribed distance between author and artist, and provides exceptional readings that are enhanced by the access that the director, his family, and his hometown granted him. In conducting survey-like introductions to the other, later chapters, Campos similarly manages to highlight crucial similarities and differences in groups of films—an exercise that can sometimes be let down by any film collection that cannot make sufficiently significant contributions beyond belonging to a notable, novel, and rarely covered area (which is what happens in his discussion of rural-set digital-era titles—[Campos 366-407]).

At a certain point in perusing the volume, I realized I could also name-check the several active critics and scholars—including, again for proper disclosure, myself—who emerged (or, in my case, re-emerged) since the book’s coverage, the turn of the century. At the same time, I initially appreciated Campos’s desistance from critiquing his colleagues (who, after all, would also be his rivals), but I started getting the impression that his citations would eventually amount to merely a comprehensive review of related literature. At about this point, almost midway through the book, he brings up a startlingly irresponsible remark made by a major culture official, at that time the dean of his college at the national university, during a Cinemalaya Film Congress (Campos 241), to the effect that independent films should reject “Hollywood” strategies (e.g., suturing) as well as their “middle-class” audiences, and proceed to elevate the mass audience’s film preferences by resorting to alternative aesthetics, as exemplified by the alienating devices and durationally extreme output of Lav Diaz (Tolentino, “Indie Cinema Bilang Kultural na Kapital”). In dismantling the aforementioned position’s premises in the next few paragraphs, the critique Campos performs is subtle, constructive, elegant, and firmly rooted in lived experience, so much so that I found myself looking forward to (and dreading) the time when he would begin clearing more space for his own ideas by being more firmly selective about existent abstractions in and on Philippine cinema.

ENC is, therefore, a conceptual coup, ambitious in providing an overview of scholarly urgencies in contemporary Philippine film studies, modest and painstaking in pursuit of its objectives, ingenious in re-imagining problems that do not seem to promise much in the way of providing conclusive answers, so that these become worthy of careful consideration. At one point, Campos juxtaposes two historians and uncovers an exceptional instance where Renato Constantino, the more avowedly Marxist author, falls short compared to Zeus Salazar, in terms of their discourses on popular Philippine culture (Campos 420-21). In two other separate instances, he astutely points out how two filmmakers usually touted as Lino Brocka’s heirs—Kidlat Tahimik (for his international recognition) and Jeffrey Jeturian (for his movies on the urban underclass)—are actually closer in spirit, by virtue of their use of humor and intellectual distance, to Ishmael Bernal (Campos 155, 290). In fact, given ENC’s consistently clear-eyed and occasionally brilliant insights, lay readers may find it difficult, if not impossible, to perceive whatever errors or inconsistencies the book may have.[2] After finishing the volume, one could reconsider the author’s introduction—disparaged by an early reviewer (Mai 306) as leading to material that Campos addresses only toward the end—and realize that it in effect constitutes a study plan that extends beyond the coverage of the text. ENC thereby functions as Campos’s scholarly mission statement as well as his proof of qualifications. Each of the chapters could serve as a blueprint for a sustained thesis-length effort, and if all other scholars of Philippine cinema suddenly and simultaneously turn inactive right now for whatever reason, film studies in the country will still be able to proceed on the strength of Campos’s forthcoming contributions.

I would prefer, however, to suggest one further direction, one that we can glean from Campos’s timely correction of his senior’s conflicted bias (mentioned earlier) regarding art and populism. In ENC, the closest that Campos comes to any recent mainstream output is in the chapter wherein he inspected the folkloric roots of the Enteng Kabisote series. I regard this to be as noteworthy by academic standards as the rest of the book. But while thereby insightful, the argument that the films hinged on the ethnoepic tradition (specifically the Sulod Labaw Donggon saga) would have minimal bearing on the movies’ stature as Christmas-festival audience-pleasers, from the perspective of its makers and consumers. It were as if Campos still needed to step away from film-specific approaches like generic pleasure, narrative design, and multimedia star construction even when these quotidian concerns already inhered in the texts’ blockbuster status and demanded to be taken almost exclusively in those terms. An even more extensive area of practice—what could arguably be the “real” Philippine cinema in terms of audience attendance and box-office results—would be the romantic comedies that have become the closest to a surefire guarantee of return on investment in local film production since the turn of the century. Campos’s determination to pursue national cinema to its ends, beyond the limits of medium, technology, geography, and period, would provide him with the kind of handle that he wielded when he started the book by discussing Manila by Night, a movie packaged as a mainstream commercial release during its time. To extrapolate from ENC, the movement he seems to be making—from periphery to exterior—would yield greater benefits if the center became his ultimate long-term target.

[First published July-December 2017, in Humanities Diliman: A Philippine Journal of Humanities]


[1] From my Facebook announcement of October 26, 2017: “Essential personal disclosures, aside from the ones in the review: Campos and I were technically non-colleagues at the University of the Philippines Film Institute, since he joined the faculty after I left. Also, as editor of Humanities Diliman, his only participation in this article was in acceding to my suggestion that I review his book; all the editing, proofreading, and peer-reviewing coordination tasks were conducted entirely by HD staff members. In fact I was the one who caught a minor inaccuracy in my first draft – when as book author, he could have been the one to point it out to me. (Which means, whether he read the submission or not, he maintained a hands-off approach.)”

[2] Since the chapters were intended to be capable of existing independent of one another, a question such as the zero-point of digital cinema yields varying responses. Campos first mentions Jon Red’s Still Lives (1999), then Mike de Leon’s Bilanggo sa Dilim (1986), then Cris Pablo’s Duda (2003) in different chapters (1, 98, and 236 respectively); all three are of course valid entries depending on how “first” is defined. Only one name, Ditto Sarmiento (actually Abraham Jr., hence the term “ditto”), is written as “Lito” (99), and only one picture, from Raymond Red’s 1984 short “Hikab,” is mistakenly presented as a still from Red’s 1983 debut “Ang Magpakailanman” (230). The text also uses “self-reflexive” apparently to mean “reflexive,” from a popular semantic slippage (reflexive meaning self-reflective). On the other hand, on the basis of a single run-through, there is a total of zero errors in the use of cultural and film-technological terms, including that of “reification,” a word occasionally misapplied by a prominent authority in the field.

Works Cited

Campos, Patrick F. The End of National Cinema: Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2016.

Constantino, Renato. Synthetic Culture and Development. Quezon City: Foundation for Nationalist Studies, 1985.

Mai, Nadin. “The End of National Cinema in the Philippines?” Kritika Kultura 28 (February 2017): 305-09.

Salazar, Zeus. “Ang Kulturang Pilipino sa Harap ng mga Institusyong Panlipunan sa Pelikulang Bakbakan [Philippine Culture in the Context of Social Institutions in the Action Movie].” Unang Pagtingin sa Pelikulang Bakbakan: Tatlong Sanaysay nina Zeus Salazar, Prospero Covar, Agustin Sotto [First Glimpse of the Action Movie: Three Essays by Zeus Salazar, Prospero Covar, Agustin Sotto]. Manila: Museo ng Kalinangang Pilipino, 1989.

Tolentino, Rolando B. “Indie Cinema Bilang Kultural na Kapital [Indie Cinema as Cultural Capital].” Rolando Tolentino WordPress site (August 11, 2008).

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Pelikula Review of Manila by Night: A Queer Film Classic (2017)

The following is a translation of Chuckberry J. Pascual’s “Mahalaga ang Marami: Rebyu ng Manila by Night: A Queer Film Classic ni Joel David [The Masses Matter: A Review of Manila by Night: A Queer Film Classic by Joel David],” published in the journal Pelikula [Film] 5 (2020), pp. 76-77. The excerpted pages may be found on this link, while the complete issue may be found on the journal website.

Joel David’s Manila by Night: A Queer Film Classic (2017) may be read in many ways, because like the multiple-character film it champions, the book also offers a myriad of narratives and discourses.

Here’s an example: film is history. David links the film narrative with the story of the nation, which may be read as a continuation of the assertion of film attendance as our national pastime. And why not? In the first chapter, David mapped how the histories of film as well as of the Philippines share the same umbilical cord. And its Janus-like opposite, rarely mentioned because of how painful it is to articulate and accept: the colonial nature of the country (also reflected in how Bernal’s work builds on the innovation of Robert Altman’s Nashville). David provides more of such explications and recollections in the book, as in his take on the common view of the years between the two Golden Ages of Philippine Cinema. In contrast with Lumbera’s pronouncement that this was a period of “rampant commercialism and artistic decline,” David counters that “In fact, the 1960s was marked by a pioneering, taboo-breaking, politically charged vulgarity never seen before or since in the country, which is essential to explaining why the Second Golden Age (1975-86) held far more promise and managed to meet more expectations than the first.” This revelation is significant because it deals with the same period where Manila by Night is set, particularly its narrative emphasis on genders and sexualities of individuals considered outsiders, eccentric, if not riffraff.

In historicizing Manila by Night, David gives weight to Bernal’s biographical background. (It may be tempting to use the word “development,” but like his film, Bernal did not evolve in linear fashion. As David put it, Manila by Night was a “mid-career work” even if it did not mark the start or the end of Bernal’s tinkering with multiple-character format films.) And Bernal and his film will never be fully comprehended unless we consider his contemporary, Lino Brocka. David correlates Manila by Night with Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag [Manila: In the Claws of Neon], and it turns out that the latter was also criticized for its stance on the issue of gender and sexuality (although eventually the controversy could be problematized: David unveils the “homoerotic” aspect of Ave Perez Jacob’s essay and itemizes the reasons for considering the anti-queerness of Maynila), though the film was nevertheless successful in obtaining the appreciation of the public and various institutions and garnered several distinctions. Whereas Bernal’s film negotiated a trickier passage: the censors mangled several scenes, while the critics upheld it for its political content and undervalued its offbeat aesthetics. David also brings up a comparison of the personas of the two filmmakers: Bernal was effeminate and loquacious, Brocka was stern and largely avoided local interviews.

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This then is an additional discourse that the book proffers: that film is an art. Integral to understanding this principle is the discussion of form, of craft. Per David, the representation of characters and their queer narratives are not the only means by which Manila by Night derives its impact, inasmuch as these are grounded in the film’s narrative structure and formal elements. In recognizing the political potential inherent in Bernal’s film style – which was initially regarded by critics as a directorial weakness, especially when set against Brocka and their other contemporary Mike de Leon – and once again, David clarifies – reminds us – that substance and form are not discrete properties, and in fact both are essentially inextricably linked. In his words, “Bernal determined that documentary aesthetics would provide the most apposite (or the least objectionable) way of matching what was, after all, Western-sourced technology with Third World realities.” This actualizes a recuperation from Manila by Night’s critical setback in being regarded as a political tract, and demonstrates as well the power of appropriation: the same style that aimed to capture “actualities” – inclusive of the output of the likes of Dean C. Worcester and Thomas Alva Edison – via a technology that was once deployed [by Americans] to occupy and subjugate, was exploited in turn by Bernal, a representative of the once-colonized population, for liberative purposes. The said appropriation though was not straitlaced – it was noisome and occasionally flirtatious, and was thereby misrecognized as “slapdash” and “flawed.” (How many folks would be able to perceive the reflexive sequence that David points out as more than a series of in-jokes at first glance?) But when beheld at length, one can finally realize how much more sophisticated this style is than the ones utilized by movies that are considered polished and perfected.

This leads us to the third discourse we can derive from the book: a film is its characters. Most of the industry’s output prior to the Second Golden Age featured singular heroes, but eventually, the viewing public also accepted the presence of several other characters. One reason David indicates is the resemblance of theaters to the churches set up during the Spanish colonial era. This is an interesting and enlightening proposition, more so because of its several implications – that audiences remain obedient, observant yet defiant in the same instance (only one God yet several saints, only one altar yet several objects of worship) – juxtaposed against his reading of Manila by Night’s productive deconstruction of our traditional notions regarding character, his provocative assertion of the film’s lesbianic orientation. As he writes, “the constant shifting of identification from one subject to another without any singular subject predominating enables the envisioning of a social formation – an abstract super-character that is literally socially constructed.” From this point, David proposes the radical potential of this super-character, whose queer manifestation is distinctly lesbian, and how this might depose, if not continually haunt and confound, the dominant order.

The book Manila by Night: A Queer Film Classic opens and ends on a personal discourse. In the beginning, David narrates how his life indubitably intertwined with Bernal’s film (and we may speculate, with Bernal’s life as well). It closes with an interview with the late Bernardo Bernardo, the actor who portrayed Manay Sharon, who’s commonly regarded as the “protagonist” of the movie. Bernardo would bring up once more the speculation that Manay Sharon “embodies” Bernal in the movie. David follows through several discourses in order to revert to this reading. From my own perspective, this return to an originary point is most apposite at the end, even if it threatens to upend all the foregoing arguments. Because the Manila by Night of Bernal and the Manila by Night of David are the same and different, even if both sprung from Bernal and David. And in the final reckoning, the Manila by Night of Bernal and David also surpasses what both of them have been.

[Author bio: Chuckberry J. Pascual is a Filipino writer and author of Pagpasok sa Eksena: Ang Sinehan sa Panitikan at Pag-aaral ng Piling Sinehan sa Recto [Scene Entrance: The Movie House in Literature and the Study of Selected Theaters along Recto (Avenue)] (University of the Philippines Press, 2016), among others. He graduated at UP Diliman, teaches at the University of Santo Tomas, and is a resident fellow of the UST Center for Creative Writing and Literary Studies and a research fellow of the UST Research Center for Culture, Arts, and Humanities.]

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Authoring Auteurs: The Comprehensive Pinas Film Bibliography

Fields of Vision

Original Digital Edition (2020)
Cover design by Paolo Miguel G. Tiausas
“Bomba” © 2019 by Mina Saha
[Click on pic to enlarge]

© 2020 by Amauteurish Publishing
All Rights Reserved

Bibliographical Introduction: Authoring Auteurs

Categorized List: Nine Classifications
Alphabetized List by Author
Alphabetized List by Title
Chronologized List: Latest to Earliest
Chronologized List: Earliest to Latest

Bibliographic Mini-Essay: The Aunor Effect in Philippine Film Book Publications

Bibliographic Mini-Reviews: Memoirs & Bios


Authoring Auteurs: The Comprehensive Pinas Film Bibliography had its origin in an annotated bibliography that I completed in a directed-research class under my dissertation supervisor, the late film historian Robert Sklar. I’d intended to include it as an appendix in my last premillennial volume, Wages of Cinema: Film in Philippine Perspective (Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 1998). Unfortunately, as I recounted in the book’s digital edition (Amauteurish Publishing, 2014),

this was one of the rare moments I was adjusting computer hardware usage – from DOS to late-adapting Windows, with the notorious Iomega ZIP drive as a means of storage, prior to my subscription to an online storage service – and it was too late when I realized that I had deleted the original copies in my regularly emptied home and office hard drives. It wasn’t the first – or even last – time that I had lost an important file, but it was one of a few instances of carelessness that I keep regretting to this day.

I retained the entries (minus annotations) that I was able to prepare for the print version’s final “Selected Bibliography” section and continued updating the Philippine entries, in the hope of reconstructing what I had lost. Life lesson: an annotated bibliography is something you might be able to do early in your scholarly career, unless annotational writing turns out to be one of your callings. In my case, I realized early on that I preferred to create long-form pieces, but that I also didn’t mind aggregating useful data and watched with frustration as the Internet Movie Database presumed to cover all film-production territories while handling outlying areas with the usual cavalierism of Western-centered undertakings.

Nevertheless I also realized almost as early that there were enough enthusiasts covering Pinas cinema – a fabulous handful of them non-Filipinos. On the other hand, even with my own growing list of bibliographic titles, I kept finding myself performing internet searches every time I was in the process of finalizing papers or articles, whether as author or as editor. So the calling, such as it was, also sounded itself over a decade ago, when I had to strive anew for tenureship, this time in an overseas university. With the tenure confirmed in the early 2010s, I only had to tick off a few other projects – setting up an archival blog, updating and posting my out-of-date materials, writing a millennial volume as well as a film monograph (plus an intervening canon project), before I could finally announce the current Pinas film-bibliography project in its rudimental form in late 2019.

The present material expanded not only the listings but also the formats; the latter entailed rearranging the original category-grouped entries into listings that were alphabetical (by author, then by title) as well as chronological (though first in reverse). I managed to draft and post a bibliographic essay, which now serves as the introduction to this volume, as well as a few shorter articles, including a collection of mini-reviews. All these were in addition to descriptions, whenever useful or necessary, that I provided for some of the bibliographic entries; apparently I am entitled by bibliographic tradition to still claim this material as my own set of annotations, a fair-enough arrangement when I reconsidered the effort that went into them.

They remain free in the spirit of the short list of internet hacktivists all over the world, many of whom paid severe or mortal costs in liberating essential information for the rest of humanity. In the case of the Philippines, I would like to name two, Jojo Devera and Mike de Leon, for pioneering in selflessly sharing with the public their invaluable and lovingly curated collections of rare film titles; they are Authoring Auteurs’ dedicatees, if they do not mind the gesture. All I can share in comparison are book titles, almost all of which I did not even write, and which cost next-to-nothing to track down and process. If succeeding generations realize the benefits of sharing whatever resources they own, I will find nothing more satisfying than that.

Help in finalizing the bibliography came from the following: Teddy Co, Deogracias Antazo, Rofel G. Brion, Byron Bryant, Jerrick Josue David, Madie Gallaga, Michelle Gallaga, Cristina Gaston, Joni Gutierrez, Mike de Guzman, Nestor de Guzman, Patrick Flores, Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil, Roumella Nina L. Monge, Eric Nadurata, Jim Paranal, Eduardo J. Piano, Jojo Terencio, Mauro Feria Tumbocon Jr., Boy Villasanta, and Ram Banal. Assistance for the study was jointly provided by the Inha University Faculty Research Fund as well as the blog sponsor, Pelikulove. [For larger image, please click on picture above.]

The National Library of the Philippines CIP Data

David, Joel.
Authoring auteurs : the comprehensive Pinas film bibliography / Joel David. — Original Digital Edition. — Quezon City : Amauteurish Publishing, [2020], © 2020.

N/A pages ; N/A cm

ISBN 978-621-96191-6-5

1. Motion pictures — Philippines — Bibliography. I. Title.

016.7914309599 ¦ Z5784.M8 ¦ P020200161

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Book Texts – Pinoy Film Reviews II: Late Celluloid Era (The 1990s)

Persistence of Vision

Bakit Kay Tagal ng Sandali?
Directed by Chito Roño
Written by Orlando R. Nadres

Someone sooner or later has to correlate the current paucity of fresh filmmaking talent with the decline in filmmaking quality, and I think we’ve had enough time – about an academic generation since the 1986 revolution – to arrive with confidence at such a conclusion. The political irony in this case should not be lost on any concerned observer: never was the movie industry more democratic in giving breaks to genuine talents than during the dictatorship, unlike in these, uh, democracy-spaced times. As further proof, the last of the major film talents to have emerged in these here parts is Bakit Kay Tagal ng Sandali? director Chito Roño – whose debut film, Private Show, was completed way before February 1986 but was released afterward only because of a series of freak (and again ironic, Roño being the son of a Marcos-era minister) occurrences.

Only now does it seem like a near-miracle that most of our best and brightest actually emerged within a few months of one another – Lino Brocka, Ishmael Bernal, Jun Raquiza, Peque Gallaga, Butch Perez, Elwood Perez, Romy Suzara, and Danny Zialcita during the early ’70s, Behn Cervantes, Mike de Leon, Lupita Kashiwahara, Mario O’Hara, and Gil Portes during the mid-’70s, and Mel Chionglo, Abbo Q. de la Cruz, Marilou Diaz-Abaya, Laurice Guillen, Maryo J. de los Reyes, Pepe Marcos, and Wilfredo Milan during the late ’70s and early ’80s. Of course one can point to at least two worth-watching newcomers since Roño’s debut – Augusto Salvador and Carlos Siguion-Reyna – but until anyone between them comes up with a follow-up comparable to their first films (Siguion-Reyna, in fact still hasn’t followed up so far at all!), I’d rather stick to the larger issue: that one or even two sparrows don’t a unit make.

Figuring out the possible reasons and disentangling them in order to effect a reversal would be worth a discourse in itself, so meantime I guess the next best thing to do would be to point out what we’ve been depriving ourselves of. This I think can be done by inverse implication – i.e., appreciating anything done by the above-named that deserves attention, so as to connote that we could have more such delights if we only had more such names around in the first place. Fortunately certain significant pronouncements can already be made about the last of the majors, this early in his career. This is because Roño clearly belongs to the whiz-kid category – an elite circle in these parts, comprising those whose expressive skills alone could ensure a holistic, if essentially flawed, creation; other names we can count herein are Peque Gallaga, Mike de Leon, and, closer to the fringes, Laurice Guillen.

Roño bears comparison with Gallaga, the most accomplished (in career terms) of the lot, since both of them, to begin with, exhibit a flair for intense, operatic camera-gestures. Not surprisingly, it is Gallaga who, among all Filipino filmmakers, has the most impressive track record in epic filmmmaking, stylistically surpassing those of earlier masters like the late Gerardo de Leon and Celso Ad. Castillo. And then again, when we think of problematic film statements, we also refer to the works of the stylists and the whiz-kids, especially Gallaga. For nowhere than in the creative process is such a situation as “too good to be true” possible: the McLuhanesque aphorism about the medium being the message can get carried to the logical extreme of there being no more message (of import, that is) within an over-elaborated medium. Bakit Kay Tagal ng Sandali? upholds Roño’s distinction – that among his peers, only he has been able to apply a visual quotient comparable to Gallaga’s, with a psychological bent of an order never seen since the heyday of Castillo. The effect, when you think about it, is pretty awesome. All our major directors, including the whiz kids, require appropriate resources in order to achieve epic feats; in contrast, Roño simulates the properties of the epic by enlarging what are actually modest givens.

These skills were on display as early as the first phase of his career, when he did a series of projects for a number of independent producers. The next phase began when he finally decided, after a series of burns and false starts with other independents, to work with a mainstream outfit, Viva Films. Kasalanan Ba’ng Sambahin Ka? saw him barely maintaining his equanimity, what with a commercialist cop-out in the end. Bakit Kay Tagal, however, more fully exhibits the director’s creative potentials, perched as it is (like the earlier film) between dismissible material and an invaluable, or at least instructive, skills display, with no let-up in the balancing act and a successful steerage of material toward the requisite build-up and denouement.

It would even be possible to appreciate Bakit Kay Tagal as komiks-sourced material, though not in the old sense, wherein the adapter was expected to temper the excesses of the origins. Hence, while Lino Brocka, for example, has been and should be esteemed for his capability to invest visual and episodic (and therefore non-rational and fragmented) material with literary values, Roño in Bakit Kay Tagal may similarly be complimented, albeit for taking the entirely opposite tack – the more dangerous, if usual, one of observing rather than defying the material’s convolutions and disproportions. Normally this approach falls flat but works commercially anyway, since it allows the multitude of komiks readers to recognize in the film the story that they’ve been following in print. Successful local stylistic exercises – Gallaga’s Oro, Plata, Mata, Mike de Leon’s Kakabakaba Ka Ba?, and some lesser works by Castillo – prove that local artists and subject matter could lend themselves to medium-based indulgence, but the lesson provided by Bakit Kay Tagal is that what lies behind these triumphs is actually the komiks spirit.

Bakit Kay Tagal may therefore be regarded as a long-overdue definitive adaptation of komiks material, in terms of the nature, rather than the literary potential, of the original form. A certain thematic strain runs through the film – the satisfying, if overworked, thesis of how class conflicts induce moral transformations in those who survive them; although the proletarian characters win over the rich ones, the movie invokes conservative caution by qualifying that the change in status also alters one’s social constitution – in short, the higher one climbs the class ladder, the more individualistic one becomes (or has to be). There is nothing unique about the sequence of events in this particular story, apart from what can be expected in an adequately structured tale; the actors themselves don’t add much to their roles, since their characters are developed according to contrasting though predictable extremities, either from rich and proud to humble and dead, or from poor and downtrodden to heritable and haughty, with a measure of redemptive repentance in the end. Such grandiosity of vision has been the standard recourse of komiks writers, who compensate it seems for the unwieldiness of their medium by cloaking their stories with all-encompassing draperies, which in turn are rendered flimsy precisely by their functional universality.

As mentioned earlier, in the hands of a less capable (read: typical) director, the inherent limitations of this type of material would have been readily discernible: mere filmmaking competence would focus the viewer’s attention on the more perceivable mechanism of the work instead of its bigger but essentially abstract statements. Bakit Kay Tagal manages to direct viewership concerns where it matters – to the larger though fundamentally trite abstractions, instead of the lapses and illogicalities. I cannot overemphasize the fact that the solution in this instance is really a stylistic one, since this should constitute a warning in itself. The fact that a Filipino filmmaker can finally surmount the deficiencies of her material through sheer skill may be good news in our context, but one only has to look across the Pacific, to Hollywood, to see how an early blessing could easily and naturally metamorphose into a latter-day curse.

In fact, if there’s anything Roño’s achievement in Bakit Kay Tagal imparts, it’s the realization that his approach is far more difficult than the traditional one; in practical terms it would be physically and financially easier to fashion and execute a well or even over-developed script than to figure out how to continually abstractify flawed material using limited technical resources. The key to Bakit Kay Tagal’s effectiveness lies not in how the project required terrific casting and brilliant technical back-up (with a concomitant budgetary complement), but in how the filmmaker provided the illusion of a seamless whole, using technique (matched transitions, expertly timed dissolves, purposeful camera movements) to promote an unusual sensibility.

In the end I guess it would be fair to state that it’s the substance of the style and not the style itself that salvages Bakit Kay Tagal from the unenviable fate of faithful komiks adaptations. The best elements of our most highly praised naturalist product, Oro, Plata, Mata, can also be found herein: an authentic sense of aristocracy, a predisposition toward perverse progressions, a subtle awareness of classic film traditions. Yet Oro, Plata, Mata, which is of more ambitious stuff than Bakit Kay Tagal, could not sustain its strong initial impact. Bakit Kay Tagal I feel will be able to get by primarily because of lesser expectations, but it ought to make us all hope for the day when a Roño project would have the ideal combination of major budget and sober material, to enable him to improve on what may already be good enough instead of merely making do with what can never be momentous to begin with.

[Submitted in 1991 to National Midweek; unpublished]

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Indigenous Ingenuity

Andrea, Paano Ba ang Maging Isang Ina?
Directed by Gil M. Portes
Written by Ricardo Lee

I knew that I’d be involuntarily associated with the project, so I took the opportunity to formalize my participation. It all started when the members of the film-student organization I was advising, unabashedly Nora Aunor fans, could only talk about (and work on) the comeback project of the actress. Never had the heretofore insurmountable challenge of breaking into the local movie industry seemed so easy – due largely to the endorsement of my coadviser, Ricardo Lee, who was also the scriptwriter of the project. My only previous direct experience in a mainstream production was in a Vilma Santos-starrer, where I was, among other things, an atmosphere person. They had inserted some lines for a human-rights lawyer character in the Nora Aunor movie to demonstrate the desperation of the character in seeking help to recover her baby. The lawyer was supposed to be unable to do anything for her, so my role was to have been limited to a one-scene exchange; imagine, I told myself, only two full-length film exposures in my life thus far, and these with Vilma Santos and Nora Aunor….

The day after I did the role, the production folded up, reportedly because the original financier backed out. And with its director Gil M. Portes scheduled to leave for New York soon after, everyone was pessimistic about the film ever getting finished. I relate all this because I never really understood, until this project, how precarious serious filmmaking can be, especially in these times. With a record-setting eleven trophies from the Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF), plus a Gold Prize, Special Critics Prize, and Individual Achievement awards (Lee and Aunor) from the first batch of the Young Critics Circle winners, it is dangerously easy to assume that the movie, now known as Andrea, Paano Ba ang Maging Ina?, had been fated to be a winner from the start.

It is also just as dangerously difficult to dislike Andrea. The worst thing I can say, in all objectivity, about the film is that it may be existing way past its time. This is, in fact, its primary distinction: not since the boldest years of the Marcos era has there been an overtly anticommercial local production – independently (and indigently) sourced and featuring nonbankable perfomers in nonformulaic material. Rarer still is the circumstance of such an effort reaping such rewards, and I mainly mean the post-Metro filmfest box-office restitution rather than the various prestigious distinctions that invariably followed. The MMFF contribution to Andrea’s fortune may be more than incidental in this regard. For all its past oversights – and these were many and cruel, directed even at some of Andrea’s makers – the MMFF has also honored, exclusively even, some of the better outputs of the local film industry: Celso Ad. Castillo’s direction of Burlesk Queen and Vilma Santos’s performance therein (both the director’s and actress’s best ever), Nora Aunor’s performance in Himala (her best and that of Philippine cinema as well), and Ricardo Lee’s screenplay of Moral (still another all-time best entry).

The value of the MMFF results, which no other award-giving institution possesses, lies in their capability to improve the financial performance of any film on which they bestow recognition. This adds a unique combination of sum and substance to the event’s moral obligation to render credible and well-considered judgments at all times. Conversely, no amount of postfestival revaluation had been able to recuperate whatever results were consequentially incurred by its negligence of such entries as Lino Brocka’s Bona (starring Nora Aunor), Bukas … May Pangarap (with the same director-writer team as Andrea’s), and Chito Roño’s Itanong Mo sa Buwan. As for Andrea, the measure by which the film has succeeded may at least partly be at the MMFF’s expense: not only had some of its personnel previously suffered the lapses in judgment of the jurors of the festival, the director and writer themselves have on record an entry, Birds of Prey, that was disallowed participation some years back on the basis of the ridiculous and inconsistent technicality of its having been financed by foreign sources. Meanwhile, what we have on hand is a product that happens to serve as the juncture of three auteurs – director, writer, and lead performer – at felicitous turning points in their respective careers.

Portes is the Andrea talent whose reputation advances with the film, from project originator to metteur en scène. Actually, though Andrea may be his best, it is not his coming-out film: that distinction belongs to his previous Nora Aunor-starrer, ’Merika, the project that immediately preceded Bukas … May Pangarap. (Andrea, Bukas, and Birds of Prey also feature Gina Alajar, who starred in the latter two as well as in another underrated Portes-Lee collaboration, Gabi Kung Sumikat ang Araw [1981]). The misfortune of Gil Portes is that his flair for uncovering independent production sources has attracted more attention than his growth as a filmmaker. No other Filipino, not even Celso Ad. Castillo, has been able to sustain a directorial career for years on the basis of a few modest hits, and more recently, despite a string of financial flops. Not surprisingly, the major production houses, having drifted toward increased commercialization since the February 1986 Revolution, have closed their doors to the likes of Portes. Other serious filmmakers, notably Brocka (and Lee, to a certain extent), have managed to maintain mainstream status only by accepting the givens and working within them.

The filmmakers marginalized by this shift in the system of local production have practically inhibited themselves – except for Portes. At one point, both he and Brocka sought foreign funding for their respective pet projects, and both similarly found themselves up against the Aquino administration’s deviously self-effacing censorship tactics. Birds of Prey and Orapronobis may yet find their way onto local screens, but meanwhile both Portes and Brocka again made a show of how film artistry could be made to fit opposing modes of production: where Brocka’s Gumapang Ka sa Lusak is 1990’s outstanding mainstream film, Andrea is the same year’s outstanding independent entry.

Significantly, both films were scripted by Lee, and may therefore provide, if only in a literal sense, a common basis for evaluation. Gumapang Ka marks a high point in the appropriation by serious artists of commercial elements in putting across what may be considered a non-commercial theme – that of the depravity of traditional politics. In forced contrast, Andrea proves that a non-commercial approach to commercial (at least in the latent sense) material is feasible. In fact, the more optimistic could argue that at no other point in our recent history would non- or maybe even anti-commercial products prosper that at present, given the mainstream saturation effected by the predominance of monolithic studios since Februrary 1986.

In the case of Lee, the twofold scriptwriting triumph of 1990 (not counting a number of more conventional works, including Brocka’s Hahamakin Lahat [1990]) can be creatively attributed to his return to more literary pursuits, especially journalism and fiction. The scene where Andrea has to hold back her emotions during her husband’s wake, as well as the heroine’s death-by-assassination in both films, all recall similar portions in the scripwriter’s latest, essentially unclassifiable work, the metafictional “Kabilang sa mga Nawawala.” Necessarily, the overall impact of “Kabilang,” where the author had total personal control, is greater, though it still has to be played out more thoroughly since its medium’s potential for popular response is disadvantaged compared to film.

But what Andrea (more than Gumapang Ka) supplies is in effect a preparation for the unqualified treat of works like “Kabilang.” The film constitutes a throwback to a point – perhaps our filmic past, as well as a beyond-Hollywood expansion of appreciation – where cinema defines itself more in terms of dramatic and thematic richness than in the accumulation of plastic-perfect points. Most buffs and historians (the distinction tends to blur in the case of film) would identify this ideal as neorealist, although Andrea, truer to its time and place, evinces a sophistication, not to mention a performance, far removed from the extremes allowed by the 1940s Italian movement.

What will probably outrage partisan viewers of opposing persuasions in another political clime is the same thing that has managed to impress those in today’s: Andrea, though it deals with the plight of a specific stripe of political animal, actually winds up repudiating not the political line, but the notion of politics itself, in order to facilitate a dramatic (as opposed to a purely intellectual) catharsis. Again this resembles the resolution in “Kabilang,” where the child, this time as central character, is orphaned as much by social intransigence as by his mother’s insistence on countering this force. Andrea, centering as it does on the title-character mother, provides the temperance factor in the person of the lead’s best friend. The ploy is slyly though transparently manifested in the standing agreement between the friends to override their ideological differences for the sake of friendship. Andrea’s subsequent martyrdom is all the more ennobled by her submission to solomonic wisdom: at considerable personal anguish, she decides to leave her son to her friend, for the brighter future the latter offers (in contrast to the bleakness of her own), and because the child has revived the friend’s married life.

The movie’s tearjerker outcome is thus provided a crucial dimension of ambiguity: Andrea may have suffered in the hands of a mean-spirited society, but her son will not. Her death provides not only a well-deserved spiritual release for herself, but the necessary means for her son (and his adoptive parents) to start anew. Andrea may therefore be taken as a plea to reconsider a return to unorthodox modes and material in filmmaking. Using this sort of approach has seemed reckless in the past, but it in fact appears now to have been so simply because serious filmmakers seemed intent on alienating the mass audience at all costs. Andrea stands as evidence that given the proper kind of creative and industrial strategizing, local viewers are now ready to be won over to attempts at uncompromised artistry.

On a symbolic plane this argument can be extended to Andrea actress Nora Aunor. I do not refer alone to the fact that, if there ever were an auteuristic performer, Aunor is our one and only. Andrea may yet represent the renascence of the actress, after a series of popular rejections (starting at EDSA) traceable to her ill-advised participation in the Marcos-Tolentino presidential campaign. Aunor has died spectacularly before on film – in Himala, a previous association with Lee. The movie, in retrospect, eerily presages her fall from grace owing to the mortal combination of her awareness of her populist origins and her rebellion against any expectation attendant to this.

Andrea is Nora Aunor’s long-overdue phoenix-like reemergence and successfully contravenes her ugly-duckling ex-superstar has-been status. No way can she hope for a return to the glory days of her teen-idol years; that much was already evident as early as Himala, where she boxed herself, by the sheer magnitude of her histrionic genius, into a category all her own. Andrea proves that she did not waste the intervening years, traumatic though they may have been for her; if anything, it was the years that wasted her – but only, and strictly, on a physical level. In fact the performer in Andrea can be regarded in many ways as superior to the still-too-pretty and sexually tentative creature embodying Himala’s Elsa. Her via dolorosa segment in the earlier film was a triumph of technique, amorphous at best, whereas in Andrea, which consists of one long journey to a final heartbreak, the pain can be visualized as a line traveling straight from her heart to the viewer’s.

Just how precisely accomplished is Nora Aunor as an actress?[1] In the past I would have answered this by sizing up her Himala performance against that of any perceived competitor’s, but this has proved to be too obvious with time. Meanwhile I had been given in Andrea what amounted to a monolog in Filipino, which I had to memorize in a few minutes. Since my memory and my command of the language are both my gravest performative disadvantages, I inquired about the setup required and learned that that scene would consist of one long take, with close-ups for the final one-sentence exchanges. A bottle of beer, one camera rehearsal, and scores of memory aids later, I still could not get beyond the first sentence without directorial prompting. But during the take I connected for the first time with those eyes, and the lines all came to me naturally and clearly, requiring no retakes whatsoever. I marveled at this phenomenon; I was entirely aware of, apprehensive about, and alert to the warning of how strong co-actors tend to upstage weak ones. I was also conscious of the possibility that the opposite could hypothetically exist. But I never expected to so casually come across a performer whose very strength could bolster, rather than demolish, everyone else’s. That’s a tale which, like Andrea, I would not mind turning into a legend.

[Submitted in 1991 to National Midweek; unpublished]


[1] Surprisingly, my attempt to answer this question led to verbal denunciations in the national university, including from my own colleagues (who should have known better, but then the place has never moved much past its status as a bastion of self-proclaimed progressive orthodoxy). The incongruity between advocating for Marxist praxis yet feeling disgusted about practitioners who refuse to cling to the immaculacy of criticism by immersing in the activities of their objects of criticism – whether artists or audiences – accounts in large measure for the persistently sorry state of critical practice in the country.

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Head Held High

Gumapang Ka sa Lusak
Directed by Lino Brocka
Written by Ricardo Lee

When Lino Brocka walked out on the 1986 Constitutional Commission it seemed like an act of futility, a typical if outsized artist’s tantrum. Predictably, the Concom carried on, drafting a document that met with popular approval, thereby paving the way for the return of authentically elected officials to power. What we mostly failed to realize was that Brocka intended to continue conducting his side of the political debate in the venue where his expertise lay – the mass medium of film – and more menacingly, that his decision to do so would be accompanied by a quantum leap in his creative faculties. Both developments have been long overdue. Political discourse in local cinema since the 1986 revolution tended to falter by the tradition of anti-Marcos dissent, which tended to be either too frontal for comfort (especially the artist’s) or too subtle to be appreciated in relation to the work’s over-all merits. Brocka himself took a leading role in this kind of perilous undertaking, but the business of surviving in an extensively controlled local industrial system as well as developing an international audience must have distracted him from paying full attention to the nature and potentials of his medium.

Of course he was not alone; he merely led in his specific field, and I maintain that the fact that many were able to follow proves that the Marcos government, for all its hard-nose ways, had a soft spot for film. Philippine cinema thereby assumed a schizoid character, awfully harmless in its commercialist aspects and awesomely threatening in its serious phases. The gravest possible consequence then was the displeasure of government authorities. But when these cultural boneheads were ousted by people power (only to be replaced by a similar set), the long-term effects of this split-level one-on-the-other approach became clear: the film artists could not relate with their audience, who in turn quickly learned to reject all old-time attempts at serious film presentations.

Hence the much-lamented dry spell in serious (normally associated with politicized) filmmaking. Even the real film artists took on a good measure of critical scolding for openly indulging in generic movie-making, at best turning out items that could be considered good only if one accepts the premises of mainstream local cinema. In Brocka’s case, this meant a string of extremely successful melodramas that could never quite break away from the imperatives of mass entertainment, save perhaps for the first, Maging Akin Ka Lamang. And even then….

Well since then Brocka came up with the still-to-be-released Orapronobis, and has followed up with his latest hit, Gumapang Ka sa Lusak, and in the purest filmic terms both titles are indistinguishable from his post-revolution crowd-pleasers. In both cases he also drew from his Marcos-era specialization in film noir, but basically he has hewn close to the plot twists and character entanglements that commercially rehabilitated him. In so doing, he advanced a proposition audacious even for himself: Philippine politics, per Brocka’s latest, is more than just a matter of intrigues and chases and shoot-outs; it is actually one big noisy and unending melodrama. Everyone gets to participate; unlike in Brocka’s gangster films, the political figures are this time identifiable and given active roles to play. The gods have now been invested with feet of clay, very wet ones at that.

It is an indication of the gap between our officials and the masses they claim to represent when no one among the former thus far has raised a peep about the wholesale (and well-deserved) defamation being visited upon them by our movie-makers. All of a sudden, politicians have become commercially viable – as villains. The two Brocka films are merely among the better-intentioned ones so far, and something must also urgently be said about the way the mass audience laps it all up. For too long, and especially since 1986, the Filipino movie-goer has been the object of scorn among the intelligentsia, who find no difficulty tracing the sorry state of local cinema to its market. No matter that the producers happen to agree; even the highest Marcos cultural official, Madame Iron Butterfly, prescribed the production of wholesome love stories among the true, the good, and the beautiful (though pretty would do), following the collapse of the martial-law era’s “developmentalist” requisites. In short, everyone agreed (many still do) that the movie-going masses are too bull-headed to take even themselves seriously. No bitter pill will they swallow, unless candy-coated and brightly colored; in which case why risk the danger of contaminating their brazen delights with the acridity of nourishment? Actually the evidence of past artistic works occasionally making money belies this notion, just as the people can take disapprobation if they have to: after all, who elected those officials in the first place?

Brocka’s Gumapang Ka sa Lusak, which has completed the filmmaking process from inspiration to exhibition, evinces a careful working out of viewership psychology, particularly when placed in the context of its director’s body of work. Inside information alleges that the project was originally intended as a sequel to Jaguar, which was written by Gumapang Ka’s Ricardo Lee and Orapronobis’s Jose F. Lacaba. Jaguar was a Brocka landmark in the strict sense that it was scripted by his most productive collaborators and first enabled the country to be represented in the Cannes Film Festival competition; in another equally significant area, the box-office, it flopped. The Jaguar re-viewer though will readily realize that Gumapang Ka is more than just a decade removed from its predecessor. As already mentioned, it’s not as straight-faced as one would be led to expect, given the scary social premises of Jaguar. Gumapang Ka is as grave as Brocka has been known to be, make no mistake; yet its lead character, who this time is female, and who dies along with the (re-named) Jaguar character, gives out what may arguably be the most blissful smile ever seen in local cinema, right before she expires.

A happy ending? In a serious film? By Lino Brocka?! And there’s more: you can even play the game of name-that-historical personage. I went as far as recognizing Dovey Beams and Rolando Galman and Carlito Dimailig (Imelda Marcos’s bolo-wielding assailant, here transmuted into an elderly woman), plus the female lead’s assumption of the former First Lady’s amnesiac attitude toward her childhood destitution, and still had enough room in my head to allow for a catch in my throat when her moralist admonition was replayed over the last shot of the “next” Jaguar – her naïve and sentimental and, yes, comic-Platonic lover. The most obvious explanation is that with Orapronobis, Brocka remembered to grow in his medium; with Gumapang Ka, he remembered to relax. Not since Jaguar has there been a dramatically involving villain in a Brocka film, and in Gumapang Ka there are even three of them: the Marcos couple and Fabian Ver equivalents. And where in the past his stories could not allow for loose ends, or otherwise resulted in an embarrassment of loose ends, here the frills – the in-jokes, the performance numbers, the open ending – are part of an expertly constructed design.

The means by which such frivolity in the midst of social grimness could be facilitated harkens back to Brocka’s disillusionment with politics. He returned to showbiz, of course, and in Gumapang Ka he set one against the other. The politicians dominate the opening gambit (like they always do in real life), with the mayor plucking his mistress from a checkered career in sex films and the couple recruiting their main henchman from a stable of stuntmen. But by living out her fantasy of justice, the mistress attains a moral triumph that makes her payment with her life, not to mention that of many others, seemingly worth the price. In this manner does Gumapang Ka attain its unique brand of salvation. As opposed to Jaguar it doesn’t run away from fantasy, but instead utilizes non-credible elements to build an expansive yet sturdy framework that allows for a whole lot of valid connections with historical reality. The fact that this approach happens to sit well with local audiences indicates some drastic re-thinking for media practitioners in the immediate future.

As if that weren’t bonus enough, Gumapang Ka also proffers generally high-caliber performances. Dina Bonnevie stakes a privileged position in an already impressive roster of local female lead performances, with hers ranking the highest in sensuality; never had she been so effective before. Her antagonists provide the flint by which she lights her fire: in a reversal of the real-life conjugal dictatorship, Eddie Garcia exhibits the charm and Charo Santos-Concio the intelligence. Come to think of it, the Gumapang Ka production outfit was once suspected of executing Imelda Marcos’s conceits for Philippine cinema, using funds whose release were made possible by her all-encompassing influence. How ironic that in violating her vision and almost her person, the producers have managed to come up with their best picture so far.

[First published June 20, 1990, in National Midweek]

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Family Affairs

Pido Dida (Sabay Tayo)
Directed by Tony Cruz
Written by Tony Cruz and Roger Fuentebella

The contrast between opposing opinions on Kris Aquino’s first film, Pido Dida (Sabay Tayo), indicates the extent of the polarization between official and independent pronouncements on local culture. Those who want or need to maintain a favored status take the cue from Aquino’s doting mother – who, the more ardent appreciators point out, was just continuing what her late husband, who happens to be our own modern-day Messiah, had started – in proclaiming the presidential daughter’s performance, and the movie by association, adequate at the very least. Those who can afford to do otherwise, for whatever motive possible, resort to any pronouncement along the rest of the spectrum, from adequate downward. In the end Pido Dida’s adequacy will remain unresolved, largely because of the political coloration that has attended its critical reception, compounded by the favorable box-office response. On the surface the film appears to be easily dismissible per se, but this may be the key to the alienation of the elite, especially the intelligentsia, from the masses: if we condemn an item as unacceptable out of our concern for its consumers, what does it make of us (and the item in question) when the consumers themselves refuse to listen?

The fascinating thing about this entire enterprise is that the crucial commercial element in Pido Dida, comedian Rene Requestas, manages to acquit himself, well, adequately, notwithstanding the heaviest creative burden he has been made to bear in his career thus far. In his past films, Requiestas had proved himself inimitable in his capability to draw humor from event the most mediocre lines and situations given him. In fact, his success en solo has given cause for worry to his discoverer, Joey de Leon, as well as relief to the latter’s toilet-humor detractors. Requiestas proves for our place and time what Pauline Kael discovered about Barbra Streisand: not that ugly is (or will ever be) in, but that talent is beauty. No other Filipino of movie-star status has had such a reliable record of stage performances behind him, save perhaps for Roderick Paulate; but where the latter was eventually delimited by his screaming-meemie persona, Requiestas, by his everyday-person projection, would be ideal for the versatility once appropriated by Dolphy – from Requiestas’s current (and deplorable) ugly-clown gimmick to perhaps a foray into Paulate territory or an assumption of a dramatic, possibly even sexy, role, with his falsies all in place of course. If I may be allowed to invest my two-cents’ worth, Requiestas seems to me to consist of far richer potential than anyone before him.

But talent, as Dolphy himself once discovered, can only go so far, especially in a medium as inevitably collaborative as film. We should only hope that in Requiestas’s case he (or his managers) opt for expanding his repertoire to include other approaches to film performance, rather than building on a so-far bankable but increasingly depletive type of role. He could wind up as an industry fixture like Dolphy, recycling past glories in customary productions every so often, though not often enough … but why be merely comfortable when you can be terrific? Pido Dida in itself could constitute a serious warning notice for the Requiestas credit, with the creative team ostensibly out to run down his gifts with the most unimaginative and sluggish lines and situations available – ugly-face jokes, cutesifications, indiscriminate inside references to politics and show business, and worst of all, a patronizing beauty-and-beast romantic angle with Ms. Guess-Who.

On the other hand the movie could also signal the emergence of a reliable competitor to the conservative young-star iconography of Sharon Cuneta. With Aquino, we have the same right-wing political wealth and back-up source, plus the additional advantages of prettiness and earnestness. The terrible reality of this kind of image-building exercise is that it doesn’t much matter to what end these girls have opted to devoted what talent they happen to possess; they could probably even get away with taking its development for granted, as Cuneta has so far managed to do.[1] The ideal entertainment ethic would be for us to relegate these strays from the political corral to their proper positioning according to their potential for contributing to Philippine culture – i.e., straight to the slaughterhouse of collective memory. Unfortunately this presumes that our non-political systems could afford to ignore the influence of establishment politics.

So in the meantime that our producers and audiences try to upgrade, consciously or otherwise, their capacity for intelligence and independence, we remain at the mercy of the dictates of those who couldn’t really care less about the quality of our creature comforts. In Pido Dida we see this principle played out in the manner by which a leading lady in a comedy gets handled like a leading lady, instead of a comedienne. Nothing funny that the Aquino character does is of her own volition, unless it be to emphasize her already obvious pictorial superiority to her leading man. In the end this kind of approach – a political decision, actually – becomes (a no-no in comedy) predictable: we get to know when the laughs are coming, indicated as they are by Requiestas’s presence, and when we’re only supposed to smile, which is when Aquino’s around. And when funnybone responses are determined by factors beyond the work’s inner mechanism, then the responses aren’t really that much fun in the end.

It should be of national interest to see the Kris Aquino persona evolve alongside her mother’s political career. If the Sharon Cuneta model is any indication, the daughter could have a better chance of outshining her politician parent, though the latter need not fade away entirely, so long as she learns in turn how to pick up a trick or two from her fair-haired child. We couldn’t do away yet with politically sponsored as aspirants to showbiz stardom, but perhaps a worse scenario – two aspirants instead of only one – might be the next best thing after all: either their rivalry repositions one or the other to a more enlightened political stance, or it rages to the extent of eventually consuming them both, symbols of impositions by an uncaring elite on our popular preferences.

[First published October 24, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] This remark must have sounded irresistible at the time. Since then Sharon Cuneta has demonstrated how precipitate (and therefore unfair) it was. She had been in the process of completing her four projects with Lino Brocka and was about to hire herself out to producers other than Viva Films, solidifying her independent-woman stature in a number of Star Cinema productions before attempting a series of noteworthy digital-indie projects. Jerrick Josue David, film scholar and close Cuneta observer, coined the term “dulsita,” a portmanteau of “dulce” (sweet) and “maldita” (catty) to describe the adjustment she made in her persona, as a way of preparing the public for the less-wholesome characters in the roles she took on. See his “Dulsita, ang Kabuuan ng Kontradiksyon ng Imahen ni Sharon Cuneta sa Pelikulang Pilipino [The Totality of the Contradicting Images of Sharon Cuneta in Philippine Cinema],” Kritika Kultura 25 (August 2015): 314-43.

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Men and Myths

Bala at Rosaryo
Directed by Pepe Marcos
Written by Olivia M. Lamasan and Humilde “Meek” Roxas

The danger in becoming aware of the ancient conflict between so-called high art and mass culture is the acquisition of the convenient misimpression that both sides are essentially irreconcilable. Nowhere in modern times has this dialectic been more successfully demonstrated than in cinema, and the Philippines is no exception: on the one hand we have the world-renowned (a past Guinness edition, to be specific) movie-going habit of our people, and on the other lies what must be another world record, given our context of film output, viewership, and Third-World status – an excess of movie award-giving bodies.[1] What this has resulted in is a positioning of a handful of “prestige” practitioners, favored for some reason or other (and not always fairly, it must be stressed) by one or more award groups, vis-à-vis, well, The Rest. The first always strive to put in some well-meaning elements in their output, while the rest remain content with the politics of survival.

A whole lot more improvement – and by this I refer to criteria of both art and commerce – would be realized if both sides dispense with this deplorable dichotomy. Our film-as-art practitioners were forced to explore local popular preference by the breakdown of official cultural pretensions wrought by the 1986 revolution; the larger challenge remains of convincing the much-maligned “commercialist” majority that quality can be both fun and profitable. A recent random release illustrates this point. Bala at Rosaryo is done by the same producer-director team that gave us the most significant lesson in the mergence of imaginativeness and mass appeal in action films after EDSA, the unfortunately underrated Tubusin Mo ng Dugo. Pepe Marcos et al.’s strong suit still surfaces occasionally in their recent effort, but the entire enterprise bogs down from the combined weight of defective structuring (the material was komiks-derived) and conventional moralizing – nothing that a good rewrite couldn’t have remedied.

Actually Bala at Rosaryo comes close to literate entertainment precisely when it veers too close to its danger points – i.e., when the plot detours into its gangster-and-virgin subconcern and the protagonists pretend that their respective positions of righteousness and mercy matter above everything else; the mass audience, who of course see through the charade, are titillated by its interplay with our folk-Catholic wisdom, which means they know that both parties are merely undergoing a courtship ritual whose sexual climax will offset the initially dominant religious stance. These “encounters” between the avenging hero and the pretty novice who falls for him are, well, blessed with a dramatic tension heightened by the use of satirical humor, particularly when the hero mistakes the hell-driving sister for his blood-feud enemy and, later, dreams of sexually conquering her under the usual tacky circumstances (he takes a bath under a waterfall and discovers her there), only to be awakened by the very object of his lust.

Meantime the peasant-class hero also has to contend with a too-circumstantial involvement with a landed family’s internal conflict. The fact that he’s used by the villain as scapegoat for a fratricidal crime doesn’t hold up too well; of course he’s paroled as reward for good behavior, and look Sis, it doesn’t ever occur to him to blackmail his tormentor once the facts clear up. Eddie Garcia bears his mark of Cain with gleeful malice; he’s finally been given full rein to go to town with his trademark hamminess and the result is one of those rare instances where the performance gets better as it gets worse. How can a pair of stuffy symbols surmount such infernal inspiration? Bala at Rosaryo attempts an answer by showing us the sound and fury of Good Overpowering Evil in the End. It’s strictly a technical answer, though, and I’m sure most viewers would prefer a full-scale resurrection of the Eddie Garcia character to a sequel of the now-sanctified union of the purged-to-pureness couple. Or maybe if we restore to them their original-sin sense of guilt, and this time exploit their fall from grace for all the laughs that modern existence could wring from it, I’m sure Garcia would make a terrific serpent.

[First published June 6, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] Several years later, a study of the “modern” award (with the Nobel as precursor) argued persuasively that the future portends proliferation, not streamlining: “Prizes, an instrument of cultural hierarchy, would themselves come increasingly to describe a hierarchical array, a finely indexed system of greater and lesser symbolic rewards, the negotiation of which constitutes a kind of second-order game or subsidiary cultural marketplace” (54). See James F. English, The Economy of Prestige: Prizes, Awards, and the Circulation of Cultural Value (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2005).

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Kahit Singko Hindi Ko Babayaran ang Buhay Mo
Directed by Jesus Jose
Written by Joji Vitug

Lito Lapid during his heyday was somehow worth watching if only for the promise of a well-made action epic. The subject himself had something to do with the semi-serious attention: among successful local action stars, he alone was (and still is) readily identifiable as Pinoy in the traditional brown-skinned, not-too-tall, well-stocked model. The closest a Lapid movie ever came to fulfillment was Celso Ad. Castillo’s Pedro Tunasan, although a handful of smaller works, notably Mario O’Hara’s Kastilyong Buhangin, were more systematic in maximizing his competence as actor. Given a two-decade-long career that was mostly characterized by his absence from the moviemaking scene, he must have decided to go the way of Fernando Poe Jr. by taking matters into his own hands and directing a project starring himself.

The risk seems to have paid off so far in the literal monetary sense in Kahit Singko Hindi Ko Babayaran ang Buhay Mo, much better at least than in Pedro Tunasan, wherein Lapid was producer. The influences of Castillo and Poe (who was directed by and has also considerably drawn from the former) are very much in evidence, particularly in the build-ups toward scenes of violence and the staging of agitated masses of people moving across picturesque panoramas. Where Castillo retains an upper hand over his actor-successors is in his appropriation of Gerardo de Leon’s diagonal deep-focus compositions, which in turn were adapted from international trend-setters long before most of us were born. Kahit Singko is the usual morality play that lends credence to the generally unsatisfactory thesis that our action films are ascribable to the komedya tradition. The characters are rounded out as far as one-dimensional premises would allow them to, and interact according to rules of conflict that pit goodness against evil; one or the other triumphs in the end (this time it’s goodness), but in Kahit Singko I somehow came to realize why such a profoundly dissatisfying simplification of dramatic issues is more deeply rooted in this genre than in any other.

Provide the characters with the requisite reasonable motivations, and you negate the necessity of looking for other solutions to resolve their conflicts. Meaning to say, once the situation becomes dramatically valid, then all you’d ever really need is a dramatic resolution – and if you append the climactic apocalypse that action aficionados always expect, your movie would have ended way before the last frame. If on the other hand you deprive the audience of real dramatization, you could hook them until the finish with increasing doses of violence and give them a semblance of having closed the issues through the sheer relief of eliminating the cause of any further shootouts. There’s one easy way of ensuring that the formula always seem new, and this is what has contributed to the perpetuity of the genre: the constant updating of issues. In Kahit Singko, two related thrusts enable the film to make a bid for historical, or at least journalistic, significance: the use of an elected government official as villain, and the portrayal of a law officer as torn between loyalty to political authority (his professional superiors) and principle (his family). A provocative contrast is set up between the hero and his best friend, also a policeman, who succumbs to an overwhelming barrage of invitations to petty corruption.

The movie doesn’t pursue its concerns to their logical extremes, which is why I couldn’t be enthusiastic enough given its critical slant. The weak-willed police partner gets killed off almost as soon as he agrees to play dirty, his fate foreshadowed by what happened to an even more notorious colleague within the same precinct. Our hero’s moral dilemma actually arrives at a pinnacle at this point, but he’s pushed back to the comfortable side of righteousness by the bad guy’s psychotic actuation in having the rest of the policeman’s family massacred during a wake already caused by his goons. The Lapid character does a Dirty Harry – surrendering his badge prior to going on a rampage – without a realization of the underlying appeal of the Clint Eastwood creation. Dirty Harry succeeds precisely because he’s true to his name: the liberal-humanist “system” of justice has taught him, a subversive from within, to resort to brutal and illegal methods in dealing with crime. Kahit Singko’s avenger turns out to be too much of an angel to be distinguishable from the rest of the canon, beyond the fact that he looks like Lito Lapid.

Along the way we get treated to the simpler pleasures of listening to a small-person’s debate on human rights and to all the characters addressing the central object of hatred as “Congressman.” In the moviehouse where I saw the film, a trailer from a rival production outfit showed another villain whom everyone called “Mayor” and whose wife looked and behaved like Imelda Marcos. The forthcoming title was by Lino Brocka, and I could swear that the unusually quiet attention being paid to it by the lower-class audience who filled the theater meant that they were busy making serious connections, as we all ought to be doing, between one movie experience and another yet to come.

[First published June 6, 1990, in National Midweek]

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Movable Fists

Walang Awa Kung Pumatay
Directed by Junn P. Cabrera
Written by Jun Lawas and Enrique Mariano

Iisa-Isahin Ko Kayo
Directed by Francis “Jun” Posadas
Written by Erwin T. Lanad

Apoy sa Lupang Hinirang
Directed by Mauro Gia Samonte
Written by Joe Carreon and Mauro Gia Samonte

Action films are back with a vengeance. Actually, Filipino action films, wherever they happen to be around, are almost always with vengeance – as a central theme, that is. It wasn’t of course always thus. What I remember of old action films was their emphasis on the instability of their violent characters’ psychological constitution, the premise dwelling on the officiated view that normal people commit no harm. Once in a while an action film would dare to be different by presenting a normal person misunderstood by the establishment (Robin Hood must have been the prototype in this instance), but this only served to reverse the preceding attitude rather that challenge it. I guess the contemporary Pinoy action film can be traced to the first item that acknowledged that a character can (and should) change in the course of her development, even if necessary to the extreme of the opposite of her original self. It may be difficult, perhaps impossible, to pinpoint a singular source, although by the end of the ’70s what was once daring and occasionally subversive (remember Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag?) became commonplace enough to become a staple ingredient in the action-film formula.

What we’re witnessing at the moment is the local consequence of what obtains once a once-suppressed tendency becomes, to use the appropriate poststructuralist terminology, dominant: said idea, in observance of the inevitable dialectical mode of progression, demands to be successfully challenged in its turn, just as it had once successfully challenged the very idea it had supplanted. In concrete terms, this can be observed in how the vengeance pattern, which had taken the place of the psychotic-gangster approach, is now undergoing permutations and qualifications with each action-film output, rather than its formerly straightforward application. With three recent action releases, just as many distinct reformulations of the vengeance principle are presented us. Walang Awa Kung Pumatay provides the easiest innovation – a technical one, which I doubt was deliberately worked out right from the start. The project’s premises seem to be safely dismissible: a fair-to-middling story, inadequate budget (resulting in below-average production values), and mannered delivery from its lead performer, Robin Padilla.

But instead of devoting attention to improving its most reliable and inexpensive element, the filmscript, Walang Awa opted to fall back on expert editorial execution, and in this manner managed to somehow salvage its one other weakness. In the year or so since his emergence, Padilla quickly learned the ham-acting local action stars use to enhance the excessive stylization required by the genre. In his case, however, Padilla built on his cutesy-boyish features, which in overextended takes (as what happened in his previous film, Barumbado), gives rise to an obnoxious projection – Sean Penn, as it were, trying to impress the critics. In Walang Awa, Padilla’s mannerisms, like the film’s defective production values, are cut right before they cross the line separating bravura from brazenness. What ensues is a lead performance charming in spite of itself (and the film as well), capable of carrying the uncritical appreciator over abundant moral, sexual, and geographic blunders, and making the requisite shootouts seem like impressive set-pieces by their contrast with the foregoing deficiencies and their deployment of Padilla’s lissome maneuvers.

Iisa-Isahin Ko Kayo has a heavier-set lead actor traversing the same Lethean course as Walang Awa. In fact, Iisa-Isahin lead Ronnie Ricketts suffers the burden of being too handsome in the conventional macho tradition, replete with broad features that don’t seem disposed toward nuances; his role in the film has been tailor-made for his capabilities – a whole lot of hell-raising, instead of strategizing, constitute the responses to what essentially are workable conflicts. It is in this instance, however, that the film manages to extenuate its efforts. Both Walang Awa and Iisa-Isahin need to have done better by their respective materials, although in a sense the same statement holds true for local action films in general: add a perceptible amount of beyond-competence complexity to an action-film framework and you’ll have something like a Peque Gallaga epic, which wouldn’t be classifiable anymore under the same genre, as defined by current standards.

The difference between Walang Awa and Iisa-Isahin is that the latter’s creators didn’t wait until their footage had been accumulated before figuring out their project’s salience. Iisa-Isahin appropriates, on a smaller scale, the strategy used by Wilfredo Milan in Anak ng Cabron some years back: I must say that the attempt works better this time around, since the film starts with a relatively realistic tone and builds up toward a totally anarchic climax, with some semiotic insights – notably one involving the Supreme Court building’s symbol of Blind Justice – neatly worked in. Yet the requisite of proper dramatic treatment eventually does Iisa-Isahin in: the good-guy police lead’s brutality is justified by his excessive enthusiasm for the implementation of law and order; the bad cop’s moll, whom he abducts, admires him for not responding to her sexiness, eventually deciding to save him at the expense of her life; and just to make sure that we all get on the side of righteousness, a couple of street kids are thrown in to save the hero and comfort his hostage and get killed by the goonies. We all know that some cops and tarts and street urchins can’t be as bad as they may seem to be in real life, but can they ever really be so wholesome as to individually profess wonderment at all the evil around them?

The last title, Apoy sa Lupang Hinirang, is the most interesting among the three, primarily because its makers did their homework where it mattered – at the conceptual level – and effectively exploited a once-sacrosanct ideological framework in the process. Students of Philippine political history will readily recognize the consistent and expert observation of the orthodox Marxist analysis of local class relations here, though only the most fanatically committed will fail to make out the glaring cynicism with which it was appropriated. Apoy also manages to get by with an entirely inexpedient set of actors by making them perform what their too-pretty features seem useful for: kissing and coupling, with the political interventions serving as obstacles to the literally sexual climax, which is quite demurely suggested in the end. I cannot help but approach the film with the ambivalence of cold comfort, since its source is anything but aesthetic. On the one had I’d survived those days when the merest acknowledgement of Apoy’s political framework could physically endanger its advocate, so my nostalgic response originates from witnessing formerly forbidden but still-familiar material being presented not just in a creative manner, but in a popular medium as well. On the other hand, its insufficiency in redeeming the work in question, which may not necessarily negate its adequacy in real-life practice, assures me, as it should assure those who worry about the current decline of culture as the national priority it should be, that there still exist problems that politics alone won’t solve.

[First published November 28, 1990, in National Midweek]

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Sedulously Cebuano

Eh … Kasi … Bisaya!
Directed by Junn P. Cabreira
Written by Cabreira & Associates

There are less divisive forms that regionalist fervor could take other than a staunch refusal to use Tagalog-sourced Filipino. The obvious logical recourse is to use whatever language happens to be appropriate – and in narrative discourse that’s set in most of the Visayas and Mindanao, this would usually entail Cebuano. There’s a type of narrative presentation that used to thrive in the region (and occasionally beyond) that also happens to have an industrial base perfect for the drive toward economic expansion in the South. We’re talking about Cebuano-language cinema, of course, which historically has been the only viable local alternative to Manila-based film production. The difference thus far has been strictly geographic and linguistic, but that doesn’t mean that more preferable differences couldn’t be worked out, or that more appealing similarities couldn’t be enhanced.

The latest Cebuano production, Eh … Kasi … Bisaya!, may be forgiven on a number of counts, all premised on the reality that the last Visayan film was released about eight years ago – too far back for anyone to even imagine the possibility that the region was doing its own films as early as the 1930s, reigning supreme over Manila and even foreign films whenever and wherever they happened to compete. Several major Filipino film talents, mostly in the field of acting, were recruited from Cebuano cinema, and a whole lot of innovations in terms of production and promotions has been tried and tested in the region. Somewhat more qualifiable are the titles themselves, the more reputable ones including the late Natalio Bacalso’s Salingsing sa Kasakit, Emmanuel H. Borlaza’s Anino sa Villa Lagrimas, Amado Cortez’s Gimingaw Ako…, and Leroy Salvador’s Badlis sa Kinabuhi. The cause of dissatisfaction can be traced to the fact that the Cebuano market, although highly dependable, is not as large (and therefore not as profitable) as that for Tagalog films.

Hence, it’s the cost-cutters who’ve attracted more attention: the past two decades, for example, saw the likes of Borlaza’s The Batul of Mactan, which revived regional production through its combination of a faded Manila star, Eddie Peregrina, and a rising one, Chanda Romero; Joe Macachor’s Ang Manok ni San Pedro, which was shot in super-8mm. and blown up, grains and all, to 35mm., thus inexpensively providing the region with its first color film; and Borlaza’s Rosaryohan sa Kasakit, the last Cebuano film previous to the current one, which enabled its producers to invest handsomely afterward in Manila-based production with Shake, Rattle & Roll, then lose disreputably with a less-than-adequate skin flick.

With Bisaya! a form of incentive long denied the Manila-based industry has supposedly been extended: the film was reportedly exempted from paying taxes. If this is true (or legally possible), then we ought to see more financiers following the example of the Bisaya! producers, plus perhaps an Iloko-language film or two, what with northern regional production boasting of a grand total of two titles on record (Karayo in 1941 and Soldado in 1978, as per a report by film historian Teddy Co).[1] Cinema should always go beyond reviviscence whenever possible, and one can only hope that Cebuano cinema could eventually serve to demonstrate its people’s claims to self-sufficiency. Any incentive granted to Bisaya! may be made to apply to future Cebuano productions, this time with emphasis on qualitative achievements. Even better, a Cebuano-language film retrospective can and should be organized, prior perhaps to the holding of a Cebuano-language film festival consisting of all-new entries.

Manila-based practitioners may find reasons to work in the South, and these should not necessarily be always monetary in nature. Cebuano officials might find that the idea of offering greater creative freedom could prove to be the crucial turning point in upgrading the stature of Cebuano-language cinema from a mere adjunct of Manila’s to a valid global capital in itself. Some future producer might want to retain the regional language in a Manila release, providing translations through subtitles.[2] Other just-as-urgent measures would be the provision of formal film education and training in Visayan schools as well as the completion of a comprehensive filmography of Cebuano-language films drawn, since not all such films were released in Metro Manila, from regional sources instead. The possibilities for growth are numerous, and we haven’t even begun to consider what themes and materials can be put to good use, given such a conscious and feasible alternative to Manila centralism. Bisaya! itself hints, daintily as it were, at the intrusions of both Manileños and Manilanized Visayans in the lives of ordinary Southern folk, and it isn’t even half-serious to begin with … or is it? In any case, we could hardly go wrong with expanding our boundaries of national film practice, tinood lagi, and there are entire islands of speakers, a linguistic nation practically, waiting to hear and see themselves onscreen once more.

[First published November 28, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] See Teddy Co, “In Search of Philippine Regional Cinema,” Movement: Towards a New Visual Literacy 2.1 (1987): 17-20.

[2] Circa the present (2014), the emergence of the more accessible digital format resulted in a number of significant regional-language film texts. Strangely, however, these works originated as proposals selected and funded by Manila-based film festivals. With the recent introduction of the country’s second full-blown film program in Cebu, appropriately enough, it may be a matter of time before full-steam regional production can get under way once more. In contrast with the spectacle of the Cebuano-language prints of Bisaya! being pulled out of Manila theaters after non-Cebuano-speaking audiences complained that they couldn’t understand the dialogue, it would also be a far simpler and less costly matter to ensure that the releases feature translations for non-Cebuano viewers.

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Black & Blue & Red

Directed and written by Raymond Red

Not much has already been written about Bayani, considering its significance in the local context, but what we’ve got may be enough to start off a long round of discussion. I don’t think the debate could center on its merits as film, since even a first screening could yield some pretty obvious (and painful) lessons on the nature and purpose of cinema, or any cultural vehicle for that matter. One also has to lay aside of course the arguments of the film’s apologists, who may be seen to come from a direction similar to most religious or political fundamentalists – namely, that the film is automatically validated by the very fact of the nobility of its origin and its maker’s intentions. The difficulty in assessing the achievement of Bayani from a strictly formalist standpoint lies precisely in its conformity to a long-outmoded notion of cinema as art, one that ascribes the medium to its technological parent, photography, and thence to its spiritual forebear, painting, by way of the realist mode.

This is not surprising considering the filmmaker’s background, but it also serves as a commentary on the difficulty (or perhaps futility) of film study and training within academically prescriptible methods. As it stands, Bayani is an impressively realized work of visual art, and it just-as-impressively struggles toward cinematic realization, but it somehow falls – not flat, but short. Considering its impossibly minimal (by mainstream industry standard) Php 2-million budget, as well as its unwieldy technical process (35mm. blown up from 16mm.), one simply ought to give it to Raymond Red et al. for turning natural light sources and field recording into a semblance of acceptable competence and occasional brilliance.

Yet one has to deal with the experience of Bayani as film, and without even counting in the Filipinoness of the material and its audience, the work urgently requires a raison d’être bigger than itself. Which fortunately exists: for, if nothing else, Bayani can rest on the historical claim of being the first assault of a highly vocal (and critical) circle of authentically independent film practitioners who, it now turns out, do possess aspirations to supplanting the mainstream after all. This may account for the holy-as-thou response of those who purport to represent the “popular” side of the conflict – a response that could backfire if one takes into account the actual potential of the group, or even of Raymond Red alone.

I would agree with the consensus of those in the know that Red has done far better work in the short format, but I would hasten to add that it’s actually misadventures like Bayani that provide clearer lessons and incentives for growth, especially for those who stake their reputation on art above all else. Red was totally ill-advised to venture on a historical feature with nothing more than technical prowess under his hat, even if it were (and this I could believe) the biggest hat of its kind in the country at the moment.

What Bayani has resulted to can therefore be attributed to the greenness of Red’s preparation in two crucial areas: history and drama, which conspired in rendering the end-product no different from an action-genre sample, complete with strictly observed moralistic judgments (Bonifacio and his followers on the saints’ side and “Heneral” et al. on the sinners’) and the requisite tragic bloodbath. Typical of Red’s self-captivity is his refusal to enjoy what is after all a formula for entertainment, as well as his perception of gender roles according to subjective heterocentrist positioning: the good guys are wholly masculine, Bonifacio most of all (with smashing looks for safe measure), while the bad guys are performed with theatrical drag-queen flourishes – fie on them for not knowing, unlike Gregoria de Jesus and her friends, where women ought to belong.

Yet to castigate Bayani for its incapability to understand what Philippine cinema, historically speaking, has been all about (not to mention a whole heap of identity-politics complications), may be drawing a bit too much from the lessons of what is after all our model industry, Hollywood. Not that Red didn’t promise a lot in the first place; but if we look forward to whiz-kids conquering our industry before their maturation (as Steven Spielberg and the Hollywood brats had managed in the US), we may just be consigning ourselves to a future of nothing but terrifically prepared and packaged popcorn fare. It says a lot about Bayani’s choice of subject matter that Red would refuse to settle for such an easy triumph. And perhaps the last laugh belongs to those who would hesitate to conclude, Bayani notwithstanding, that local cinema’s Red scare is over.

[First published July 1, 1992, in Manila Standard]

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Book Texts – Commentaries: Pinas

People-Power Cinema

To begin with, there isn’t any celluloid commemoration, whether factual or fictionalized, of the February 1986 revolution. The only one ever attempted, Four Days in February (Marilou Diaz-Abaya directing from Jose Dalisay Jr.’s script) has been shelved and, due to the recent reversals in the political fortunes of the Armed Forces “reformists,” has been for all practical purposes rendered stale as yesterday’s pan de sal. All this may be for the better. For one thing, the revolution is widely perceived by all its major participants, regardless of their positions on the political spectrum, as still finished, although I shudder to think what further upheavals await us. More important, those heady days 20-or-so months ago (more like a generation since, you’ll agree) seem better consigned to memory: at least there’ll be a multitude, millions literally, of versions of what actually transpired, rather than a few interpretations unfairly imbued with the aura of credibility through plastic manipulations.

A problematic, however, can be sensed from the fact that local film criticism has been thrown into disarray by what outputs actually turned up, rather than by what have been turned down or out. Not a single serious product made since February 1986 – serious releases immediately after, but those could only have been made before the revolution! After is what matters, and the trail so far is littered with melodrama and fantasy, hardly the stuff for the sensible artistic discussion we used to know…. Well, not quite, if we count in the occasional bold and action film. But save for last year’s critics’ awardee Takaw Tukso, the former has been nothing if not the now-standard exploitation vehicle, while the latter has evolved into that most unsatisfactory mutant, the real-life hero’s story.

There may be a more positive stance one can take, and I believe it’s not only practicable, but absolutely indispensable, if our so-called critics are to assume once more their relationship of mutual nourishment with the industry. The problem is that the dark days of dictatorship, pardon the bromide, fostered in us an equation of grimness with seriousness. The fact that our culture is predominantly Catholic didn’t help: what comes easy is always suspicious, if not downright sinful, so value increases in proportion so suffering. The application of this sometimes-but-not-always valid assumption to film criticism becomes painfully obvious if we re-view (watch all over, that is) the titles that seemed to matter during the Marcos years. Admittedly a handful of great ones will continue to stand out, but I’ll bet my sense of vision that a disturbing proportion will emerge as having been admirable for some form of political or social daring, and nothing more. To an extent more than we care to admit, we were actually putting a premium on titles with an eye to watching the powers-that-were, who never had enough good taste to begin with, squirm from the references. Artistic achievement assumed secondary value, the icing on the pie in Imelda’s face, and sometimes, especially in the case of genre (standard box-office) titles, even became a liability because of its threatening nature. Why, if a bold or fantasy or action or melodrama movie were to be given serious consideration, who’ll pay attention to the latest academically engineered agitprop work of what’s-his-name, when his budget, not to mention his skills, couldn’t even begin to compare with the industry’s full-blast capabilities?

Of course this entire state of things became possible only because the viewing public occasionally made known its support through its patronage, and so our sociological framework of the masses seeking enlightenment during a period of oppression comes full circle. But now they’ve come to prefer escapist entertainment, and our pinpointing responsibilities on film- and policymakers will only amount to so much barking up the wrong signpost. The February 1986 revolution remains, after all, a happy memory, a veritable dream-come-true no scripted theatrical experience could ever hope to match. The desire to somehow extend the good feelings, even if only in the confines of a movie house, is where we’re starting from. If we’re loaded with titles that provide nothing but happy endings – which is actually the current case, even among our favorite pre-revolution filmmakers – then we better start looking for new values to champion, rather than imposing old ones. And if I may add the obvious, this is a good an opportunity as we’ll ever have to return to simple virtues of classicism in cinema – the well-told tale done with utmost competence, adding appropriate points for imagination. Where this will take us is anybody’s guess, including mine, but what matters right now is that film artistry, though always somehow with us, has never had, for reasons often beyond our control, its proper place in our hearts.

[First published October 28, 1987, in National Midweek]

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Studious Studios

The return of the studio system used to be one of the most abused bogeyisms brandished before us by prophets of gloom of various persuasions and motivations in the local movie industry. The scare died down recently, for the simple reason that the threat of studio re-domination never really returned. That was then, of course, and now all developments, to use a euphemism, indicate that no other setup exists other than that founded by and upon our modern-day movie moguls.

To be sure, the early confusion may have been numerological in nature. The last time a studio system flourished, it was manifested in the form of a trinity: a major, a rival, and an underdog, more popularly known as Sampaguita, LVN, and Premiere after the war. Movie stars, in an apparently instinctive bid to appropriate the axis of power among themselves, contributed greatly to the reshuffling, by attempting to violate the rule against shuttling from one outfit to another. The collapse of the studio system may have been due to the studios’ resistance to the upward mobility of their personnel, including their most prized possessions, their contract stars. All that was needed was for an entire pack of aspiring underdogs, then as now calling themselves independents, to provide lucrative options for discontented performers who’d break away from their mother companies only to find themselves blacklisted (as a form of collective protection) by the other biggies.

The star system, however, never really prospered beyond an individualized basis, for roughly the same reasons that the independents eventually yielded to the superstars: the individual entrants were too self-sufficient to coalesce or forge alliances, and the local market could only accommodate so much – three at a time, it seems. In a manner of speaking, the industry’s system has never really been based on independents or stars, not once; only on studios. Once the inadequacies of the alternatives between independents and superstars became clear, the time was ripe for another season of studio domination. Three at a time, then. With Agrix and Bancom Audiovision battling for supremacy during the 1970s, and a number of worthy stragglers, notably Crown-Seven, striving for third place, warnings began to be raised. Agrix folded up, so did Crown-Seven, leaving Bancom at the top and Regal, for a time an underdog, the closest rival. Bancom was then dissolved along with its larger conglomerate, and the apparent jinx suffered by those in the position of major was enough to pacify the pessimists.

Without much fanfare Regal took top place, while Viva came on strongly enough to claim the status of rival. Only an underdog-newcomer, the Marcos government’s Experimental Cinema of the Philippines (ECP), made enough noise by way of threatening to dislodge both occupants, and the rest of the movie industry as well, from their profitable circumstances. It took the February 1986 upheaval to eliminate, among others, this last obstacle in the re-establishment of the studio system. Seiko assumed the unlamented ECP’s underdog role, and happy days, at least for the mogul-owners, were here again.

So far all the evidence favors the reincarnated versions over their predecessors. They’ve been wise enough to allow the sharing of contract stars among themselves – to the detriment of the personalized social-cum-thespic training the old studios used to proffer, impose even, on an in-house basis. Lately they’ve even outdone themselves on a conceptual level. For where the old studios employed certain generic trademarks with which to identify themselves – LVN with musicals and costume spectacles, Sampaguita with fantasies and tearjerkers, Premiere with gangster stories – the present ones have taken to exchanging their corporate images with one another: Viva, which prided itself on gloss, has been attaching its name, rather than that of its sister company Falcon, to low-budget crime stories like Ex-Army and Boy Negro (formerly associable with Seiko) and recently came up with a Regal staple, a quickie musical comedy, in Buy One, Take One; Regal, on the other hand, has been taking tentative steps toward comparatively big-budget but komiks-based products (after its quickie formula failed to work in recent succession), with Nagbabagang Luha and the forthcoming update of Dyesebel; Seiko likewise has begun glossy productions in earnest, what with the satisfactory box-office returns of Hiwaga sa Balete Drive (more Regal in its comic-horror bent) and Isusumbong Kita sa Diyos (definitely a Viva formula).

Bernard Bonnin and Susan Roces, and Sharon Cuneta and Richard Gomez (left to right) as one another’s generational counterparts in Pablo Santiago’s Buy One, Take One (1988).

Most of these efforts were premised on the prospects of renewed moviegoer interest after the usual approaches became too predictable for (financial) comfort. No doubt the novelty of the old images carrying over into the new offerings had something to do with the encouraging turnout of viewers: Viva’s Sharon Cuneta and Phillip Salvador shedding their long-cultivated glamor, Seiko’s struggling also-rans suddenly basking in lustrous production values, Regal’s campiness to be enhanced (or perhaps defeated) by an uncharacteristically big budget. What is left for these modern-day mammoths to do is confront their one last impediment to immortality. In more than just the spiritual sense, the old studios passed away along with their founder-owners. The way the present ones are being run, it becomes easy for opponents to hope, if not in the progressive enlightenment of the moguls, in the eventual demise of Mother Lily, the del Rosarios, and Robbie Tan – a sure thing anyway, given the still-limited lifespan we have all been heir to. Decentralization may be the immediate logical response, although there remains one better strategy, the very factor that keeps certain First Golden Age titles in the consciousness of current film observers despite the virtual inactivity of the original producers: the word – but are we ready for it? – is, of course, quality.

[First published July 20, 1988, in National Midweek]

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Shooting Crap

When Joey de Leon claims he couldn’t care less about critics’ complaints regarding his use of toilet humor, the issue doesn’t revolve on the soundness of his argument. Toilet humor, as used in the context of this debate, is unofficially understood to be a sub-category of obscenity – in direct opposition to our moral guardians’ shibboleth of wholesomeness. By extension, the argument goes, toilet humor, as a form of obscenity, is socially undesirable and therefore should be subject to suppression. No one has ventured to raise the issue of legality so far, although this would clinch the controversy in a convenient way. Anyone, de Leon included, could easily answer that the antiquated nature of our censorship laws renders such an approach amorphous at best; still, the issue at stake remains unarticulated.

Joey de Leon gets away with toilet humor – has the right to it, in a manner of speaking – simply because he has been so darn successful of late. During the early days of his trio with the Sotto brothers he might have taken the pounding with, well, a grain of salt; their always moderate and occasionally pleasing box-office returns could serve to ease the sting somehow. But now he has struck it rich, and it’s not so much the power he holds over the characteristically purchasable movie press: appearances to the contrary, he’s not that crude, and he need not be so in the first place. It’s the implication of so fail-safe a formula on so financially frank a system, when any project without de Leon’s pretensions to satire – without de Leon himself, even – could now be assured of record-shattering box-office returns by merely purveying shit jokes on primetime.

In short, the moguls owe so much quantifiable gratitude to Joey de Leon for this good-as-gold discovery. Not even Imelda Marcos’s pera-sa-basura [money-in-trash] projects could prove as conclusively as Starzan et al. did that the sound of cash registers ringing could compensate for the fumes of unflushed concepts. And even if a movie writer had enough sense (and guts) to dismiss the big-timers’ current sanguinity with what may eventually be known as the de Leon formula (endless swigs of castor oil following entire plateloads of goodies, with a movie crew on the alert), a rebuttal happens to be waiting in the wings from the opposite direction. The logic runneth thus: to question a person on the basis of principle is a simple thing to do, but when that principle happens to enjoy popular support, then the possibility of claiming to be better than the majority, antithetical to the democratic premise of raising questions on their behalf in the first place, emerges. This puts the de Leon “critic” in a position too awkwardly similar to that of the cultural censor, who derives his raison d’être from the perverse notion that the people, even (or especially) in a democracy, could not know what is good for them.[1]

There may be two ways out of the impasse that both sides find themselves ranged against at the moment. One is that of historical materialism – which basically posits that nothing lasts forever, least of all a thing of no real value. Just as Dolphy’s piss jokes and Tito, Vic and Joey’s snot jokes saw their respective heydays come and go, so will Joey de Leon’s fecal fixations – if not in the near future, then along with de Leon himself, may his sould find peace (no critics in heaven?) come the time. The trouble with this attitude is of course its superciliousness, consciously partaking as it does of the same judgmentalist approach that it initially seeks to distance itself from. The only other option, which may seem the least desirable because of its passivity, used to be impossible to adopt because of the polarizing consequences of the previous political dispensation; if Marcos were still around, the toilet-humor controversy would have been resolved in favor of one side or the other, eventually depending on the perceived benefits to the state.

It may be time for a little more sophistication then. How about regarding such devices as attempts at cultural innovations, the breaking down of taboos in preparation for possibly more serious discourses in future? Part of my reservations about de Leon’s objectors is the sneaking suspicion that the campaign would not have taken on a strong degree of outrage had Starzan, if not the rest, been a Critically Defensible Work of Art. But what if, then? Would we have expended all our intellectual resources defending a crap scene (as was proved aesthetically viable in an early Wim Wenders exploit, Kings of the Roads) – eyeball-to-eyeball with Manuel Morato if necessary, just because art’s sake was at stake in this instance?

One way of looking at the situation is through the perspective of guerrilla strategy. Filipino film censors have traditionally been suckers for artistic provocation; the best way to get their danders up in the past was to inject an offensive aural or visual detail in an otherwise integral prestige project. But beyond the delight of watching them mouth the most culturally illiterate justifications for the imposition of already ill-advised policies, the consequences – stricter censorship procedures, mangled or banned products – were definitely too exorbitant for all those involved. Since in their view the less artistically minded products pose proportionately less harm to the community, why not allow such items to take the lead in toppling the ramparts of convention? Come the time when a real and responsible filmmaker will find it absolutely necssary to put in a cussword or a toilet scene or a subversive idea, the precedents would have been set, the producers would have been satisfied, the masses would have been bored with the usual treatment, and everyone might be a bit happier with the attempt. Had Ishmael Bernal done Manila by Night (whose entire toilet pick-up scene, among countless others, was deleted in the original release) late last year, he might have to thank, among others, Joey de Leon for the trophies he’d now be collecting.

[First published April 4, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] Viewers of the TV program where Joey de Leon found himself fending off attacks from both political positions would have recognized Manuel L. Morato, designated chief censor by then-President Corazon Aquino and subsequent candidate for the presidency, representing the conservative sector; and Behn Cervantes, theater and film director, critic, actor, and professor, and former political detainee, representing orthodox progressives.

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One of the early distinctions, dubious though it seems, of the 1990s is our latest designation of what we’d all known the past two decades or so: that the sex film is marketed primarily for its audience’s carnal titillation. Ever since institutional controls on the treatment of sex eased up (though gave up would be the more satisfactory description) during the ’60s, our film practitioners had been relying on a series of merely suggestive, sometimes even coy, labels for what were in a sense products of a worldwide and continuing cultural revolution. The first word was bomba, drawn from the political turbulence of the period of its emergence, the pre-martial law years. One would expect that the original namesake – the pro-activist sector, not Roger Arienda (whose nickname would not have stuck had his public ignored him) – would have resented the industry’s adoption of one of its virtues to refer to a diametrically opposed form of passion, personal rather than social. Instead, both sides seemed to have arrived at an understanding that they had more in common as subversives committed to certain material ends, and so demonstrators then were not averse to patronizing the latest sex flick, just as the more sensible bomba practitioners, particularly Ishmael Bernal, Lino Brocka, and Celso Ad. Castillo, would turn out socially critical subjects once 1081 had effectively closed the season of open expression for both camps.

Bold, the next term, served to consolidate a number of mildly descriptive labels, among which “wet look” proved to be the most graphic (and therefore most popular). “Bold” is of course antediluvian relative to bomba; even Gerardo de Leon’s FAMAS record-setter, Huwag Mo Akong Limutin, which copped out on an abortion scene (reputedly its most shocking feature), was called worse things by the censors – and this was during the 1950s.[1] But what revitalized the genre, allowing it to even surpass its predecessor, was precisely the aforementioned social consciousness that our filmmakers developed along the way. No bold film was ever as, well, frontal as the typical bomba movie was; on the other hand, no bomba product could equal in significance the best martial law-era movies that employed sex either as additional come-on or as legitimate topic for filmic discourse.

The decline of the Marcos regime made possible an approximation of the bomba era, while the fall of the Marcoses led to a complete backslide. Obviously “bold” wasn’t bold enough anymore. The acronym penekula (from penetration + pelikula) was coined ex post facto, with the renewed moralism generated by the 1986 revolution plus the cheaper resources afforded by video combining to making graphic sex films too notorious and small-time for a reputable and long-term undertaking. And so we now have sex trip, although where it will take us is really the big question. The name is still too novel for generalized considerations, associated as it is with an aspirant-to-major studio, Seiko Films, which still has to pay its dues for industrial success by way of awards-worthy projects. If the term sticks, it won’t be the first time a studio engineered a classifiable trend in movie-making: if my memory serves me right, Regal Films, then also a struggling outfit, identified itself with bold-film production, to the point of incurring the ire of a culture-meddling Imelda Marcos.

The main difference, however, is that all these titles – bomba, bold, even penekula – managed to redeem themselves with projects memorable for more than just their extent of skin exposure, while “sex trip” just happens to be more frank a description than the rest.[2] Nothing on the order of Nympha, Pagdating sa Dulo, or Tubog sa Ginto from the bomba era, Aliw, Brutal, Burlesk Queen, Karnal, Moral, Salome, Sinner or Saint, or Manila by Night from the bold period, or Boatman, Private Show, Scorpio Nights, or Takaw Tukso prior to (but within the spirit of) the penekula trend can serve to so far justify the sex-trip films as worthy of, say, aesthetic appreciation by the year 2000. Not even the emergence of a performer comparable to Yvonne, Chanda Romero, Rio Locsin, Amy Austria, Lorna Tolentino, or Jaclyn Jose, or the spectacle of an established star like Eddie Garcia, Vic Vargas, Rita Gomez, Vilma Santos, or Gina Alajar trying on genre for the possibility of career enhancement.

A kind remark is in order, though, and it is the recognition of the fact that the sex-trip trend is laboring under a severely imposing tradition. Any self-respecting artist would think twice, to say the least, before allowing her product to be called, under whatever currently fashionable appellation, a Pinoy sex film. What the name “sex trip” has going for it, however, is something stronger than a mere sense of history: there appears to be the promise of profit in the term, not to mention the convenience of an abbreviation. How far the potential can be contracted, pardon the puns, should give way to every imaginative attempt at its expansion.

[First published April 18, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] Sharing this admittedly anecdotal detail regarding what may be Gerardo de Leon’s other major missing film (aside from Daigdig ng mga Api): the scriptwriter of Huwag Mo Akong Limutin, Jose Flores Sibal, turned out to have been a distant relative on my father’s side. We had our first and only conversation literally on the eve of his departure as migrant to the US – I didn’t know then that I would have my own opportunity to pursue graduate studies in the same country a few years later, and got too busy when I arrived to be able to contact anyone. Before he left he turned over a copy of his script for the missing de Leon title, which I read before depositing the manuscript with the University of the Philippines Film Center. It deserves a more extensive discussion, but I might opt to provisionally echo the same response when I read how dismayed Petronilo Bn. Daroy was when he managed to watch Daigdig before it got lost. The narratives that de Leon was handed could only hope to touch on sensitive material (agrarian reform in Daigdig, abortion in HMAL). Daroy was the best culture critic of his generation and de Leon the best Filipino film stylist who ever lived. Cold War culture abhorred any hint of resistance to contemporary patriarchal authority – which is why one will have to search elsewhere for evidence of a successful collaboration, starting with de Leon’s subsequent project with Sibal, the period adaptation of José Rizal’s El Filibusterismo.

[2] The sex-film trend that succeeded Seiko Films’ sex-trip was termed titillating film, intended to designate more open anatomical depictions, including female and male genitalia. This predictably resulted in conflicts between liberals and moralists, with the Catholic church (via the interventionist Cardinal Sin) weighing in at one point. Significantly, both sex-trip and titillating-film trends constituted the first instance of more than one sex-themed fad being initiated by the same studio (Seiko Films, whose hype was handled by seasoned publicist Oskee Salazar – per Mauro Feria Tumbocon Jr., founding chair of the Young Critics Circle and founding director of the US-based Filipino Arts & Cinema International). José B. Capino, in “Soothsayers, Politicians, Lesbian Scribes: The Philippine Movie Talk Show,” ascribed the new trend to “more relaxed censorship laws” (Planet TV: A Global Television Studies Reader, eds. Lisa Parks and Shanti Kumar [New York University Press, 2002], 262-73).

Caution should be exerted in the historical exercise of recollecting the acronyms carefully and cleverly formulated by Salazar. ST for sex-trip was meant to evoke a jokey Taglish vulgarism, “standing titi” or erect penis (the masculine counterpart of HP or “happy puki”), while titillating film was shortened to TF and nothing more; the immediate pop-culture referent in this case was “talent fee” – an utterly innocuous expression, inasmuch as the transgression was already performed in the very descriptor “titillating,” as suggested in the foregoing ST. The claim by a film authority that the actual abbrevation was TT Film must be regarded as culturally illogical and therefore spurious, erroneous, and presumptive.

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Firmament Occupation

Generally but strangely regarded as one of the perennial problems of Philippines cinema is what has come to be called the “star system.” Stars, or extremely successful movie performers, demand astronomical figures that invariably limit a project’s allocations for other aspects of production. The obvious logical lapse in this formulation is the way performers are distinguished from the rest of the elements of film – as if directing, scriptwriting, cinematography, editing, and clapboard operation, among other activities, can contribute to a movie’s excellence, while acting cannot. Worse, this assumes that characters, the central feature of commercial cinema and a whole lot of non-commercial movies as well, are separable from all the other things that go into the completion of a filmwork.

The problem lies in the fusion of two highly charged terms to a situation that isn’t remediable by any long shot, much less a close-up. “Stars” exist wherever intense human activity is complemented with high visibility; cinema happens to be the most obvious and permeative modern-day example, but one can have stars in other contexts too – politics, academe, religion, fashion design, smuggling, entomology, etc. The absurdity of aspiring toward a star-less ideal can be seen in the execution of a political system that averred as much: first, the masses themselves became the supposed stars; eventually, the leaders, in the guise of representing their constituencies, assumed for themselves positions of prominence. The other word, “system,” is the one that compounds the problem. As far as movie histories anywhere have exhibited, there may have been vacillations between a studio system and an independent system (and a trend toward total government intervention locally during the latter part of Marcos rule), but there has never been so far such a thing hereabouts as a star system. Strictly and analogously speaking, a star system depends, in full material terms, on the existence of stars – meaning, stars not only facilitate productions by the guarantee of their presence, but also provide the wherewithal for the productions themselves.

The combination is crucial. A star may have been the entire motivation for a particular project, while on another occasion she may have engaged in film production, but unless she invested her own money in the first instance and carried enough box-office clout to be the movie’s main attraction in the second, then she would never have been essential part of the movie system; she’d be just a star, if that were semantically possible, in the first place, or a star who happened to produce in the second.[1] In the beginning it wasn’t all that simple, precisely because matters were much simpler then. Anyone who had both money and ego could go into movie-making: one could cook up her own project, assemble a production staff, direct them and herself, and collect the returns in good time. The giants of early Hollywood cinema – Charles Chaplin, D.W. Griffith – and their local counterparts – Jose Nepomuceno, Vicente Salumbides, among others – were virtual one-person studios, with every possible filmmaking skill, including lead performing, arrogated unto one and the same individual.

To a certain extent we still have devotees of this almost-ancient era who try to keep the faith when they can: America’s Woody Allen and our very own … well, Celso Ad. Castillo. Filmmaking, however, and turn-of-the-millenium life too, have becoome too complex and fast-paced and expensive to allow for integral approaches to anything, especially creative endeavors. This we saw for ourselves with the story of our studio system. The producers, three of them actually, who had enough foresight and managerial skill to allow for specialization and long-term planning, eventually dominated the industry, giving rise to a so-called Golden Age of stability and consistency of output during the 1950s. But because the Big Three moguls refused to recognize the even more specialized claims of movie workers, including stars, to extreme fluctuations in income, insisting instead on fixed salaries as the basis for industrial professionalism, the less principle-obsessed outfits were able to bid for the services of the talents who mattered, and consequently toppled the system of studios.

These more pragmatic producers, who called themselves independents, gave rise once more to the possibility of self-production, this time with a more lucrative twist: not only would a star entitle herself to the proceeds of her own film, she would also be able to guard against creative sabotage and, most important, boost her stocks further in the market for acting services. The rate of a Fernando Poe Jr. or a Dolphy would now be computed on the basis of the profits either of them could realize if the FPJ or RVQ production houses took charge of the projects, rather than how much their previous films had made for their respective financiers. Hence what we have at present is really a historical confluence of two opposing systems – studio domination (three major outfits) and independent production, with a highly distinctive and restricted (and aging) star subsystem subsumable under the latter; there also happens to be an even smaller but less definite circle of performers who produce films, but not necessarily themselves in these films, and much less themselves to sell such films.

Are these categorizations always significant? Not so much in the consideration of how the presence or absence of a star in her own production provides any form of psychological (or now-emergent ideological) modifications, but more in the area of pinpointing what constitutes a problem for study, rather than an occasion for well-worn rhetoric. Take out censorship or taxation, and you could conceivably realize some forms of improvement in film production, if not in film quality; Marcos-era experiments in industry control provided more-than-adequate proof of the workings of such dynamics. Eliminate stars, and if they don’t get replaced, then maybe the movie system itself has burned out.
[First published May 30, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] I was not surprised to learn later that this insight had already been articulated, although I first heard the name Edgar Morin as the co-director of Jean Rouch of the pioneering cinema verité entry Chronique d’un été (1961). In a later class on film stardom, I read an English translation of his 1957 book Les stars – which was not the first time a notion I’d worked out turned out to have been affirmed (or challenged) by a previously articulated idea.

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Blues Hit Parade

What may soon evolve into a form of cultural schizophrenia, if it isn’t at that stage already, is the current contrariety of attitudes toward the state of Philippine cinema. On the one hand are the pessimists, who resumed their lamentation once it became clear that the four-year-old 1986 revolution was not going to result in anything on the order of the best outputs of the Marcos years; on the other hand, the optimists point out that, after the revolution’s alarming dead stretch, local movie producers never had it so good, with one box-office record after another being broken in rapid succession. I must stress at the outset that my sympathies lie with the latter group, and that the lure of lucre just happens to be one obvious and too-practical reason. For too long the critics of Filipino movies took their calling in an adulterated sense – i.e., judging severely instead of judging fairly, which is the primary definition of criticism. What we may be hearing now is a reassessment of the worsening portion of Marcos rule as the glory years of local cinema, but if you go back to that era, you may have difficulty distinguishing the condemnatory tone of critical writing then from what you may be able to find today.

The upshot is that since our industry practitioners were not made aware of the excellence of their collective performance then, they had to accept the rejection of their situation along with the system that spawned whatever merits it contained. In short, after the change in political administration, everyone was completely in the dark as to where to begin: a return to active institutional support (Marcos’s example) was out of the question, while on the other hand the movie-going public seemed to have fled along with the regime, leaving almost a year-long period of nothing but box-office traumas.

Congratulations then are in order for our industry leaders, for the success of their concept of a turnabout. I feel confident enough to even bet that no other local industry has managed its own resurrection in as financially triumphant a manner as did our movie practitioners. Balancing the absence of absolutely reliable box-office reports with the assurance that no one in her right mind would readily boast of grand profits owing to an ornery tax situation, the recent feats of box-office records being broken much more often than they ever used to be would be something quite phenomenal. And yet…this time our critics are on target in bemoaning the decline in quality of our movies, and we have enough reason to fear that the enthusiasm of local producers may be verging on recklessness. The reason hinges on the correlation of both factors: box-office returns are not enough precisely because of the absence of quality in the outputs that facilitate these returns – not so much because of the absence of long-term or overseas profitability, much less a non-material consideration of the implications on cultural hygiene.

The danger of relying primarily on lighweight material to draw in heavyweight profits lies in the demonstrable possibility that what used to be relatively lighweight may not turn out to be so anymore, especially if it proves profitable enough. The mechanics can result in some truly panicky complications: quickies make more money, so more people want to be in on the action, thereby spreading thin the amount of cash available for profits. Among the interested parties would be the government, which can (and did) increase its share through taxes, thereby diluting even further the profitability of easy movie-making. The possible scenario veers between less box-office winners (and record-setters) and cheaper quickies – with the worst case combining both. And the closer we approach either situaton, the farther away we get from the possible solutions. The decline in local, or more accurately Metro Manila-based, profitability points to the potential of exploring the only regional market that has proved historically viable: the Cebuano-language circuit, now worth another serious consideration because of the economic resurgence of the South; Cebuano movie production, however, petered out in the past precisely because the region could not provide the profits that Metro Manila can offer, so this results in a closed circle, with everyone left out.

The other option is the exportation of our products, and here we must initially contend with both our colonial sense of inferiority plus the slow pace of returns – possibly necessitating the offering of initial titles as sacrifices to the altar of long-term investments. Once these are surmounted, an even greater hitch emerges: the international-scale quickie would of course be Cecil B. DeMillean beside its Pinoy counterpart, and coming from our premise that big-budget production would be too infeasible at this point, camote cultivation might not seem so small-time an alternative after all. A sadder consequence awaits those who appreciate film for reasons that render mammon secondary. The big, proud, expensive movie would be as much a part of the past as the mammoth, its appropriate namesake, while the modest achievement will become too costly to produce on a regular basis. We can fantasize about Hollywood brats coming to the rescue of our masters the way they did elsewhere – until we wake up and realize that the countries these now-needy filmmakers represent once worked hard to create a favorable impression on the international film community, while all we every really did was produce quickies to break our box-office records, with our own government making sure that the profits did not outstrip its capacity for “sharing” them.

Ah well. Maybe then we can all learn to read and write in a common language and arrive at some plateau of achievement, before we discover how to level it down once more, but that would be another (non-filmic) story.

[First published June 27, 1990, in National Midweek]

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Book Texts – Pinoy Film Reviews I: Celluloid (Pre-1990s) Era


Directed and written by Eddie Romero

Directed by Mike de Leon
Written by Mike de Leon, Clodualdo del Mundo Jr., and Raquel Villavicencio

Two movies – one by an old-school director and another by a considerably younger one – serve to demonstrate the classic conflict between theme and technique. Eddie Romero’s Kamakalawa is prevented from being entirely effective by its defective production values; Mike de Leon’s Kisapmata, on the other hand, very effectively says little. Kamakalawa is Eddie Romero’s third ambitious production since his auspicious comeback in 1976 (the other two are Ganito Kami Noon … Paano Kayo Ngayon? and Aguila). Set during the local pre-Spanish era, it tells the story of Kauing, a commoner who becomes involved in the intrigues among gods and noblemen. His adventures begin with the assassination of the reigning sultan by a rebel datu, upon which the princess calls on him to accompany her in summoning loyalist reinforcements. The mission is temporarily abandoned, however, as Kauing decides to save some elves and noblemen from the tyranny of the river goddess, in the process unwittingly seducing her. Meanwhile the sea god has to maintain his dominion over people, if not over nature. The river goddess, for her part, will have nothing to do with such to-dos, so long as her territorial concerns are left in order. Inevitably the sea and mountain gods confront and destroy each other, just as their respective mortal armies do. The river goddess’s downfall lies in her love for Kauing, which the fire god will not permit; to solve her predicament she embodies Kauing’s true love, the princess. In like manner, the surviving populace abandons its conflicting causes and acknowledges Kauing for his confidence in and compassion for humankind – a portrait of the leader as less concerned with than ignorant of politics, yet accomplished in the skills of diplomacy.

There is considerable intelligence in the interrelation of divine and temporal issues in Kamakalawa – at least enough to justify the combination of various local mythologies into a new and original whole which will annoy no one except purists. When, for example, the forest god beckons vampires to vanquish his peeves, the realization of a hierarchy among supernatural creatures, which makes them no better than their moral counterparts, is made clear, regional incompatibility notwithstanding. Even Philippine pre-Spanish society in Kamakalawa is somehow tailored to fit the filmmaker’s imaginative fabric. In a specific instance, Kauing, a tiller of soil (“clodhopper,” as the international version’s subtitles translate), proves his prowess over a haughty nobleman by first sparing his life in a royal bout and then saving him from various enchantments wrought by the gods of nature. The consideration of chronology – of the emergence of peasants only after the decline of indentured slavery and its attendant nobility – hardly matters anymore, subsumed as it is under the filmmaker’s interest in the superiority of productive forces over non-productive ones.

Filmic brilliance, however, cannot be confirmed to conceptualization alone. As in any other artistic medium, substance could be either enhanced or subverted by style. In the case of Kamakalawa Romero’s statements are not exactly negated by his direction; nevertheless, considering their scope and magnitude, they have not been handled with the high degree of expertise they deserve either. The most embarrassing examples of technique getting in the way in Kamakalawa are in its use of special effects. To put it kindly, the in-camera tricks and special laboratory processes employed in the movie are inferior to those of local fantasy films of lesser budgets. Care could have been exercised in minor matters such as the depiction of proportions among gods, mortals, and elves, the exploration by Kauing of the river goddess’s lair, or the appearance of a musical ghost. If these instances sound interesting, then the movie’s supernatural highlights are definite downers. The climatic showdown between the forest god and the sea god is appalling – but not because the protagonists lay the landscape to waste; their weapons do not behave like the flashes of lightning they are supposed to be, their clashes are mere washouts, the havoc they wreak could be outdone by faulty firecrackers.

This is not to say, however, that Kamakalawa is downright disastrous. As pointed out earlier, Romero’s healthy humanism is reason enough for the movie to be seriously taken. No other local director would have the sagacity, not to mention the audacity (considering the speaker’s ridiculous costume), to furnish a character, the fire god, with a monologue on power, existence, and eternity – and make it sound sincere enough for comfort.

Kisapmata, meanwhile, has everything it takes – and more, if one were to quantify Vic Silayan’s performance – to succeed where Kamakalawa fails. Taken as independent contributions to a creative collective, the various filmic elements of Kisapmata are, without exception, exceptional. In audiovisual terms, nothing in the film is obtrusive or inadequate – a balancing feat by any technical standard. Hence while watching the movie the viewer would be drawn along from beginning to end by correct composition and consistent visual tone; one would be helped along by sparse but purposeful auditory exploits; one would even be moved by the performances of individual members of the cast. On the whole, however, Kisapmata is nothing more than a narration of the events that lead to a father’s killing of his wife, daughter, son-in-law, and self; any relevant issue – incest, obsession, fascism, rebellion – is treated as an incidental angle, then quickly cast aside in the pursuit of plot.

Mike de Leon (b. 1947), the next Filipino talent to be featured at the Cannes Film Festival, after Lino Brocka.

Consider, say, the incest angle. The act itself is suggested by the father’s entrance into his daughter’s bedroom, with a little help from an earlier confrontation between the mother and daughter confirming the practice within the family. This is a discreet manner of presentation of a social taboo, which no doubt facilitated the movie’s passage through the eye of our rusty censorship needle. Whether it serves the movie’s purpose is a different consideration altogether. In fact the graphic depiction of another social taboo – the killing of kinsfolk – would not be in keeping with this attempt at adumbrating a comparatively lesser aberration. The social issues are just as inadequately treated. Lip service is paid to progressive concerns, such as references to political detention centers and acceptance of police corruption. Mere mention, however, is not the same as discussion: for all the complexity of the issues raised, the movie’s singular dialectic begins and ends with the father’s fatal obsession with his daughter.

This disturbing dichotomy between technical wealth and thematic poverty is best exemplified in the relationships among the characters. For in Kisapmata, the excellence of individual performances provides an illusion of successful characterization where there actually is none. The practice of incest, for example, should have introduced psychological changes in the daughter beyond normative dimensions. As it turns out, she responds to her mother’s calls for aid and rebels when she finds out that these are pretenses planned by her father; also, in spite of her conventionality (she resorts to religion regularly), she submits to another man – her husband, with whom she had premarital relations – without discernible traumatic consequences. The father, played with a plethora of nuances by Vic Silayan, comes on as an imposing figure right from the start, and remains that way throughout. In this regard, his fateful outburst at the movie’s climax may be safely logical – but not, by any means, tragic. A serious oversight on the filmmaker’s part prevented the evolution of the father into an understandable figure; before the shootout he is simplistically dismissed by his family as a psychotic. But since he is made to carry out the climax literally and figuratively singlehandedly, his character, to say the least, should have been provided with subjective developments.

Creating sympathy thus for the father would have been less bold than the incest angle, but it would have made the shootout at the end cathartic instead of simply shocking. In this sense Kisapmata can be regarded as representative of the Hollywood influence on contemporary Philippine cinema: technique-conscious, paradoxically to a fault. A return to thematic awareness in the manner of old guards like Romero would be more welcome – presuming, of course, that the filmmaker concerned is already capable of technical competence to begin with.

[First published November-December 1981 in The Review]

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Down but Not Out

Directed by Francis “Jun” Posadas
Written by Eric and Susan Kelly Posadas

Tubusin Mo ng Dugo
Directed by Pepe Marcos
Written by Jose Carreon

This year’s first local entries classifiable under the troublesome categories of bold and action indicate some bright spots ahead for post-revolution Philippine cinema. To review recent cultural developments, bold and action films used to be the closest that our serious filmmakers utilized in working out compromises with their financiers; comedy and melodrama were simply considered incapable of presenting “messages,” and therefore generally unworthy of aesthetic attention. I recall how, in a period of only occasional filmic achievement (which was most of the time, then as now), I would go to a name director’s bold or action entry in the hope of encountering sensible discourse, but would disabuse myself of such a notion when it came to comedies and melodramas.

Then came 1986, and notwithstanding pessimists’ claims, things did change, even in the local film scene. Comedy and melodrama took the forefront in both box-office and artistic terms, while bold films permutated into the hard-core quickies reminiscent of pre-martial law times, and action movies ventured in the opposite direction – real-life stories done with the ultimate in production costs. Nektar and Tubusin Mo ng Dugo, bold and action films respectively, seem to point toward a return to the median, as it were, for these temporarily lost film types. I’ll readily own that I might be too optimistic about the first title, but the second can be taken as a case for generic survival: instead of breaking as far away as possible from the films that seem to be doing well, why not figure out how best to adopt the factors that excite the mass viewership about them?

Hence, the spectacle of witnessing some form of industrial osmosis, with a bold film attempting to take on the plot complications and technical competence of melodrama, and an action film spiced (spiked, even) with comic routines. I’d like to be kind enough, at least in print, in pointing out that, the way most current bold films go, Nektar could have been worse. It’s bad enough as it is, but you could sense an aspiration toward, well, making sense. The story’s our well-worn odyssey of the Virginal Barrio Lass getting corrupted by the Big City, with the melodramatic, or at least komiks-influenced, twist of Morality Triumphing in the End. Before you start groaning in your creaky theater seats, let me remind you that this material has proved remarkably resilient through the decades, with each movie generation having its own claim to posterity in a least one such topical example: Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag honors the moviemakers of the seventies in this way, although of course Nektar could only hope to distinguish its own specific period in time, and no more.

There’s an even more painful aspect to the movie, and that’s the care, believe it or not, with which it was executed. Nektar must be the most carefully made bold film since Takaw Tukso two years ago – but one must be careful to take this in the context of the common run of such films, rather than the quality of the specific titles being compared. The difference, and this is where Nektar fails, is that its makers have just not been up to the challenge, meaning the effort shows in the final product. It becomes almost embarrassing to see a movie so sincere yet nevertheless substandard in all respects. A few portions do stand as set pieces, specifically the heroine wandering in the Luneta by night, and then much later discovering how her supposed savior betrayed her.

Of course this only makes the rest of the movie almost unbearable in its pursuit of a reasonable but overworked story framework. I guess in the final analysis, a little figuring out about the specific nature of filmwork could have helped: Maynila, although it resembles Nektar on paper, salvaged itself by opting for a semi-documentary approach; in the other direction, melodrama films contain the potential for degenerating into camp, which though not as promising at least provides a provocative element of fun. How sad to fall in between, losing the interest of both serious observers and escapists – unless a hard-core version exists somewhere; but then that takes the fun out of knowing you did a good movie and showing it to friends and potential acquaintances. In which case how sad again, etc.

After Nektar, Tubusin Mo ng Dugo emerges as a minor cause for celebration. Pepe Marcos, a former editor (who also doubles for the same function in his films) who turned director four years ago, first came up with a passable debut, also a Rudy Fernandez starrer, in Sumuko Ka … Ronquillo! Neither practitioner has come up with totally execrable work since, but in Tubusin I’m happy to report a rarity of sorts – their best individual work so far. The qualifications should not be far behind though. Tubusin’s still a customary product, made for no greater shakes than the usual action entertainment contained in its main plotline. Normally I’d say it suffers from an imbalance in story development, but in fact this is where its strong point emerges. Instead of the usual establishment of good guys being lined up against bad guys, Tubusin takes an expository detour and provides a picaresque description of the lead character’s misadventures within a shrewdly observed social milieu.

Yessir, your average martyr of a mother happens to be a nag, your friendly neighborhood police chief resorts to third-degree, and your noble working-class savage gambles and drinks when he can, and even sets himself up for an occasional hustle! I was bewildered, to put it mildly, and then I started to wonder how long such a good thing could last. My worries were answered as soon as they occurred to me. Turned out that the mother feared for her son’s future, ditto the police chief, and though the hero-son gets to sire a family of his own, his involvement – unwilling, of course – in a big-time crime syndicate leaves him without much choice, were it not for the long, long arm of the law, yawn, yawn. I should have suspected something amiss after the hero rapes his best friend, a butch lesbian, and she forthwith disappears; what do you know, she reemerges much later, converted by her heterosexual encounter and therefore happily married to a poor unsuspecting atmosphere person.

Meanwhile a few instances of the early part’s humor, coupled with some really fierce action sequences, manage to pull the reluctant viewer through; the mass audience will of course be more forgiving, so I guess I ought to be honest about my admiration of how perceptive the filmmakers of Tubusin have been in their appropriation of current commercial preferences in a film genre that would otherwise have been as good as obsolete. In the end, Tubusin will be remembered mainly for just that – revitalizing a film type to conform to the mood of the times. Like Nektar, it will have acquired the box-office profits it intended to make in the first place, although with much less outrage about competence and entertainment appeal. We should all be so glad Armageddon might somehow take longer than tomorrow.

[First published February 17, 1988, in National Midweek]

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Chauvinist’s Nightmare

Kumander Gringa
Directed and written by Mike Relon Makiling

One cultural paradox of our current national existence is the fact that at this point, close to the second anniversary of the February 1986 revolution, our favorite mass medium still has to yield an unqualified triumph in political discourse. Once in a while, or sometimes too often, the movie industry would come up with an alleged true-to-life depiction of a still-living and militaristically significant political personality. The samples so far have proved to be viable for box-office business, but understandably self-serving for their respective subjects; in short, bad for the spirit in the long run. I hope this sufficies to demonstrate the minimum of cynicism in my appreciation of Kumander Gringa as our most successful post-revolution political movie so far. True-la-la, as the lead character (or more accurately one of two) would say: the item, like its subject matter, is far cleverer than what it would have us believe.

Roderick Paulate as the triumphant gay doppelgänger in Kumander Gringa.

To begin with, Kumander Gringa arrives on the (high) heels of Ako si Kiko, Ako si Kikay, which features not only the same director, Mike Relon Makiling, and performer, Roderick Paulate, but also the same comic premise – that of two characters identical in physical appearance but worlds (well, sexes actually) apart in orientation. Notice the twin defensive measures resorted to here, in terms of intention: not only is the undertaking a comedy, it also features the least offensive of Pinoy stock comic characters. And just in case this still couldn’t serve to appease the moralists in our midst, it further halves the lead character in two, the better to drive home the contrast between sexual differences, playing as it does the comic gay against his straight and serious counterpart.

But where Ako si Kiko was content to exploit this condition for strictly commercial comedic ends, Kumander Gringa pursues a far more ambitious and ultimately more appreciable, if not actually radical, course. Where the aforementioned biopictures were content to simplify political arguments by reformulating the left-vs.-right conflict into a center-vs.-extreme argument, Kumander Gringa provides sex-based embodiments for each side of the debate. Instead of the good-guy peace-lover caught between the bad-guy war-freaks on both sides of the political fence, we’ve got the gay lead straddling the contradictions between the more realizable concepts of civism and militarism, as represented by traditionally defined women on the one hand and similarly self-imposed men on the other. For the first time in any major local movie, both sides are made to succumb to the camp aspects of the gay option.[1]

The limitation of this sort of approach should be obvious to any perceptive social observer. It’s still too schematic to allow for innovation within specific sexual orientations, whether conventional or queer. Where our current biopictures attempt one over run-of-the-mill action movies by imbuing the psychologically motivated protagonists with political significations, the likes of Kumander Gringa in turn transform these political valuations into sexual differences. The approach is actually more analytical than dramatic, and in the final reckoning all these titles share the common property of editorializing in the wrong medium. They strive for the attention-getting appurtenance of thematic novelty without having fine-tuned (and as a consequence they cover up) the essential mechanisms of character and plot development. Using rhetoric metaphor, the machine looks new and therefore potentially workable, but it could never run itself into the long-term required for classical stature.

That would of course be tantamount to expecting Dostoyevskian rewards from a Mills & Boon paperback, and in fact I’d go as far as conceding that a Mad magazine feature would be closer to the nature of Kumander Gringa. But the mere fact that the discussion could initiate this level of polemics indicates that Mike Relon Makiling and Roderick Paulate, and by association contemporary Philippine motion-picture comedy, might be going somewhere. Kumander Gringa will also offer some slight film-educational, or more appropriately performing-arts, insights, particularly on the cruciality of the comic performer’s contribution. Again this carries on where Ako si Kiko, Ako si Kikay had left off, this time with the lesson more pronounced. What I mean is that, compared with most of Roderick Paulate’s previous gay-persona outings, Kumander Gringa to begin with has dangerously weak histrionic support: no Nida Blanca, Tessie Tomas, Nova Villa, not even a Maricel Soriano in close range, just a bunch of well-meaning and congenial talents eager to do their best but whose capabilities definitely fall outside the lead star’s caliber.

Roderick Paulate as a gay military recruit forced to act as a deep-penetration agent impersonating a macho rebel leader in Mike Relon Makiling’s Kumander Gringa (1987).

The risk Makiling took in response to this limitation has paid off in most parts, of which the financial aspect isn’t yet the least. In Kumander Gringa Paulate comes into his own in a definitive manner, proving for all practical purposes that he’s the prime comedian of the day, fully capable and confident in getting away with even the worst conventions his specialized kind of craft can proffer. Shrewdly, as it turned out, Makiling built the movie’s highlights on scenes intended to be carried by one, the other, or both of Paulate’s characters, and in fact allowed his star the bravura opportunity of creating a character-within-a-character, with the gay lead barely though riotously managing to impersonate his macho counterpart.

But instead of leaving Paulate to assume the burden of taking the movie to climax in this one-upmanship manner, Makiling eased the project itself onto parodic territory. I wonder how aware the filmmakers were of how close to radical the movie’s climax was, wherein the gay survivor delivers the lines and actions so far reserved for our most revered male movie personae. The incongruity is downright outrageous, but no one who has ever been moved, as I’d sometimes been, with all those mythologizing endings in our action movies will fail to feel that almost-reflexive swell of emotion. On the other hand, if everything were deliberately done, at least as much as would be enough to hold up under this sort of scrutiny, then the movie couldn’t have been as casual, as disarming even, as it turned out to be.

Then again on further thought the literal notion of disarmament is made a vital part of Kumander Gringa’s denouement. I guess clever’s the word, and I mean it as a compliment, true-la-la, but somehow I couldn’t help suspecting that there might be more where this came from.

[First published January 13, 1988, in National Midweek]


[1] One of the films made in the wake of the groundbreaking success of Mar S. Torres’s 1954 Dolphy starrer, Jack en Jill, was Tony Cayado’s 1962 Kaming mga Talyada, where seven effeminate brothers are transformed into masculine heterosexuals via army training coupled with the endangerment of their potential objects of desire; the very last shot, however, depicts their hyper-masculine commanding officer as having been “infected” with the effeminacy that he had sought so desperately to eliminate in his charges, as he follows the now-normativized couples with a distinctly waddling gait. That it took a quarter of a century before this (for want of a better term) condition could be acknowledged as vital enough to induce its proponent to undertake heroic action and transform an entire army camp into happy campers may be read in two ways: as merely a reaction to the recent spate of (again pun incidental) straight-faced people-power heroicizing biofilms; or, on a broader scale, as an expression of relief that the masculinist nightmare of martial rule has finally been dispelled.

A further development must also be brought up here: the final doppelgänger roles essayed by Roderick Paulate was in Maryo J. de los Reyes’s Bala at Lipistik in 1994. This takes a step back from political discourse and focuses on the several comic predicaments that may be the stock-in-trade of the action film set-up, notably the abduction of the gay twin after being mistaken for his long-lost toxic-masculine gangster brother. Where it compensates is in the crucial aspect absent in the Makiling films: the beauty-parlor proprietor is partnered with a gay-for-pay stud, who proves chivalrous enough in upholding his sugar parent’s social respectability, despite the standard resolution where he has to settle for the best biological female who comes his way and require his same-sex partner to acknowledge the arrangement.

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O’Hara Strikes Again

Tatlong Ina, Isang Anak
Directed by Mario O’Hara
Written by Mario O’Hara and Frank Rivera

Mario O’Hara’s problem also happens to redound to the advantage of the sensible viewer. Either his films are worth sitting through from the beginning, or they warn you when a walkout is in order right from the start. Like his contemporaries when they were at or approaching their peak, O’Hara refuses to create any middle ground. Give any of his latest titles the benefit of a quarter hour or so, and you get assured that your money will be well-spent, or else you’re given the option of refusing a nonsensical product.

He also seems to have found the ideal level of balance between working on a moderate budget yet making the most out of his own storytelling and his performers’ histrionic potentials. Of particular interest over the years are his collaborations with Nora Aunor, and since his resumption of a directorial career during the 1980s, his batting average of roughly one well-made movie annually during the past four years places him on a par with no other local director except Peque Gallaga. For belligerence’s sake, I suppose one could list down the latter’s Virgin Forest and Scorpio Nights (both 1985), Unfaithful Wife (1986), and Once Upon a Time (1987), and on the other hand name Condemned and Bulaklak sa City Jail (both 1984), Bagong Hari (1986), and add Tatlong Ina, Isang Anak as O’Hara’s 1987 entry. Funny, as a final sidelight, how one happens to be identified with the art-for-art’s sake camp, while the other’s associated with the social-realism group – reflecting the earlier dichotomization between the public personae of Ishmael Bernal and Lino Brocka.

Tatlong Ina, Isang Anak isn’t exactly a movie one should rave about indiscriminately – let’s reserve that reaction for the first title that recalls the glory days of the early eighties. What Tatlong Ina does is provide a conventional good time (an irony for a film whose main characters are illegitimate kids, sex workers, and gangsters) – and it sure reflects tellingly on the state of the industry when a movie without any major ambition turns out to be in many ways the year’s best so far. The strange thing about Tatlong Ina, coming as it does from a filmmaker with a presumably progressive political orientation, is the property it shares with O’Hara’s other recent good films: happy endings. (Of instructive socio-psychological value would be a comparison between these and Gallaga’s serious efforts, which in contrast, except for Once Upon a Time, present tragic resolutions.) Although suffused with film noir stylizations, especially in an overabundance of shadows and equally shady characters, O’Hara films are entertaining to a degree that would definitely appall dogmatic proponents of social realism.

Never has his strategy become more obvious than in Tatlong Ina, where the happy ending finally ties in most satisfyingly with all the preceding developments. For all its realist imagery and subject matter, the movie is actually a proletariat’s fantasy – a wide-eyed daydream on how personal virtues operating within the proper social circumstances might just suffice in surmounting classic class conflicts. As further proof of Tatlong Ina’s political sophistication – or cleverness, depending upon your preference for the conventional – the proletarian heroes encounter opposition from not only the orthodox villains, the bourgeoisie, but also the so-called bad elements from whom they (the heroes) may initially be indistinguishable. The unlikely team of golden-hearted prostitutes and noble-minded bums subdue kid-snatchers and snobbish aristocrats through the use of force and charm respectively, with sexual attraction for each other and sympathy for a fallen comrade’s love child as motivating force.

The abstraction does sound ridiculous, and isn’t helped any by a series of coincidences that help propel the major characters toward ultimate victory. Only an artist’s strong convictions in the face of all this silliness could create a semblance of integrity through technical consistency. Which, luckily, O’Hara provides, by way of skills rooted in theater and well-hewn in cinema.

It wouldn’t be too pedantic then to maintain that Tatlong Ina, as typical of O’Hara at his best, is an effective accumulation of finely observed and captured incidents with above-average performances providing the crucial credibility factor. His storyteller’s sense of proportion fails him this time in only two instances, both of them admittedly minor in relation to the movie’s overall accomplishment. One is the use of the child as commentator, when her narrative functions at the start would have sufficed. Of course the expansion of the precocious Matet’s role fits in with her lead-star status, which in turn has served as the movie’s main come-on; but the problem of explaining real time – when, where, and why is she telling the story of her “mothers’” uphill struggles? – eventually emerges, and is never given even a perfunctory explanation. Secondly, and more seriously for the film’s narrative purposes, the story suddenly permutes into the standard (and, by now, quite kinky) Nora Aunor requisite of pairing off a mousy character with an extremely improbable mestizo-type; the fact that the Adonis in Tatlong Ina also happens to come from old-rich stock practically promises to be the movie’s undoing.

Nora Aunor, positioned between her usual fair-skinned male partner (Miguel Rodriguez) and her equally fair adoptive daughter (Matet de Leon) in Mario O’Hara’s Tatlong Ina, Isang Anak (1987).

To a certain extent this particular instance of indulgence is mitigated by O’Hara’s bravura staging of the most original wedding sequence since such endings recently became de rigueur once more in commercial romantic outings. To be sure, the mise-en-scène appears in this case to be simple enough; it is the working out of the various class reactions, specifically the reverse snobbery of the about-to-be-redeemed ex-prostitutes, that ensures that this wedding scene’s reliance less on pomp than on circumstance will make acceptable its appendage to the movie. The aforementioned reservations aside, Tatlong Ina can stake a short-term claim on memory, if only for its admirable exposition on the underworld milieu, comparable to the same director’s prison portion in his other Nora Aunor movie, Bulaklak sa City Jail. Tatlong Ina’s is more loosely structured, but then it covers a whole lot more territory, and as explained earlier, its upbeat ending fits the entire schema less awkwardly than does the earlier work. If this presages a cautious breaking away from the predictable and admittedly tiresome traditions of social relevance in moviemaking, then O’Hara’s next moves certainly merit closer attention.

[First published September 2, 1987, in National Midweek]

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Mellow Drama

Paano Kung Wala Ka Na
Directed by Mel Chionglo
Written by Ricardo Lee

Reviewing early this year a movie titled Kung Aagawin Mo ang Lahat sa Akin, I recall having given the much-maligned genre of melodrama more potential than most critics were willing to concede. Just to give you an idea of how ivory-tower snobbish mainstream film observation can get, what I’d written was tantamount to saying that melodrama could achieve its intention to entertain without being downright insulting. Maybe it was because the film under discussion then happened to have flowed out of the run-of-the-mill melodrama-maker, which in these shores can only be equated with a singular production outfit: Viva Films. Well, I had some quibbles then about the title being reviewed, and the only constant reaction I’ve had to Viva melodramas hadn’t differed before and hasn’t differed since. Somehow, somewhere, something just doesn’t work out, usually in terms of story development, internal logic, or characterization – or what the academically inclined would call the classical values in narrative craft.

This time we’ve just had another output that contains all the elements of the melodrama we’ve come to be suspicious, if not intolerant, about. Happily, for the purposes of my thesis, the film works in several crucial areas, except maybe for the fact that it wasn’t produced by the company I was hoping would be able to perfect the form. Paano Kung Wala Ka Na has a beginning and ending that are unmistakably happy, unless you’re one of the few misanthropes around who denies the celebratory tone commonly associated with partying. All the main characters are unmitigatedly and unforgivably rich, and by that token could pass for being beautiful; the fact that they are physically so increases their distance from us lesser mortals.

They enjoy the luxury of playing at love, though not as intricately as the old French romantic comedies could depict it, but then who among our audiences have been exposed to this tradition, much less understand French? When these characters cry their hearts out, which at the most occurs roughly every other scene, only the heartless can resist agreeing that such perfect specimens don’t deserve such cruelties of fate. Even the hoariest convention in contemporary romantic works – the Lovers’ Interlude, a meaningless montage of a young couple having their fill of life (to the tune of the movie’s theme, for which reason blame MTV) – can be considered herein a mere irritant, a distraction if you will, justifiable only in the sense that the film’s plot complexities could use some breathing space. The best part of all, the one aspect which local melodrama, for some strange reason, finds difficulty in presenting, is the fact that all the characters are given equal time – not in the literal sense, but according to a great classicist’s dictum that everyone, most especially a character in a well-told story, has her reasons for acting (in the dramatic, not the histrionic sense) the way she does.

In Paano Kung Wala Ka Na this realization is pursued through a clever ploy. In the guise of allowing the marital problems of elderly couples to reflect on their young, the movie proceeds to develop the oldies’ stories into a finely woven tapestry held taut by a commanding sense of irony. The fact that the young ones’ love triangle inadvertently reverts to a disconcerting triteness is one way in which truly creative film artists could subvert conventions while seeming to indulge in them. In this sense Paano Kung Wala Ka Na could still be considered at best a transitory milestone, whose final goal would be a product that manages to discuss the problems of the elderly according to updated notions of morality, without having to resort to young stars seemingly being taken seriously for understandable (though not always acceptable) box-office reasons. More important, it points the way for current state-of-the-craft melodrama-making: that twists and reversals associable with the genre are best employed in the service of humane characterization rather than the plot complications that typify current approaches. I’m sure someday someone will castigate Paano for making all melodrama characters predictably likeable, but for the moment such a device is innovative enough, and therefore desirable in itself.

Snooky Serna and Miguel Rodriguez as young lovers whose elders play out a more complex roundelay of relationships in Mel Chionglo’s Paano Kung Wala Ka Na (1987).

The film’s director-writer team-up (Mel Chionglo and Ricardo Lee respectively) has had some even more commendable output before, including Playgirl and Bomba Arienda, plus what I consider one of the most underrated movies of the current decade, Sinner or Saint. What an assuring development to realize that their decision to play around with current conventions of commercialism has provided them with invaluable skills and insights into that kind of challenge, and some sensible entertainment for the viewing public as well.

[First published October 14, 1987, in National Midweek]

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Natutulog Pa ang Diyos
Directed by Lino Brocka
Written by Orlando Nadres

Paano Tatakasan ang Bukas?
Directed by Emmanuel H. Borlaza
Written by Orlando Nadres

Sa Puso Ko Hahalik ang Mundo
Directed and written by Artemio Marquez

The trouble with prevalent local film criticism is that either it isn’t critical or it is. Either it’s an advertising package, with a usually minimal veneer of subtlety, or it’s the diametrical opposite – a pronouncement of definitive proportions utilizing criteria culled from the dwindling groves of academe. Hence the nature of incentives available to practitioners is encompassed on the one hand by publicity machineries of various makes and capabilities, and on the other hand by awards and ratings bodies, each designed to counter the other side: the academy award(s) for the studio system, the religious award for (presumably) the unscrupulous sector, the critics’ award for the movie press, and the movie press award for what seems to be the critics’ group. Currently the controversies in this aspect seem to center on the propriety of the existence of rivalries. Certainly one or the other so-named academy award group would rather be the only one of its kind, and even having the movie writers’ group divided between the critics and the, well, non-critics correctly implies one set of trophies too many.[1]

Lost in the lollapalooza is the reality that film output is actually more variegated than what the apologies of this state of affairs would have us believe. Never mind the alternatives – those products finished in non-commercial formats for usually non-commercial, or at least non-mainstream, ends. What about the majority – the film products that fall in between by refusing to pander outright to either side of the industry conflict? What we usually take notice of are the extreme instances that justify the polarizations within: the box-office success that proves the necessity of publicity, the artistic triumph that provides another excuse for the annual award-giving ritual, and rarer still, the popular and critically acclaimed product that reconciles both sides for the moment, until the next non-artistic top-grosser or artistic box-office flop comes along.

Few movies, Filipino or otherwise, are unqualified masterstrokes either way, and so for the most part (or so I believe) regular moviegoers actually attend to the national pastime more mindful of one another’s responses rather than what people in media have to say. Which is just as well. It would be the height of absurdity to subject movies like Natutulog Pa ang Diyos, Paano Tatakasan ang Bukas?, and Sa Puso Ko Hahalik ang Mundo to the declaration of the box-office winner, since the mere fact of doing good financially is already a reward in itself; on the other hand, it would also be the height of cruelty to impose criteria of artistry on efforts that may have set out to accomplish something more than just returns on investments, but definitely not “art.” Maybe one could approach them then from the perspective of entertainment? This would admittedly be difficult, premised as it is on pertinent cultural assumptions and connoting a good deal of subjectivity in the process. The easier option is to behave, instead of think, like a typical Filipino moviegoer, but then the responsibility of rendering some insights, however tentative, gets forsaken.

So here goes. Natutulog Pa ang Diyos is surprisingly effective, if you’ve been following Lino Brocka’s progression. Where he used to concentrate mainly on surfaces, testing a technical or technological approach or two while remaining faithful to a predetermined text, here he seems more relaxed about merely being competent and allowing himself or his actors some latitude in on-the-set explorations, and possibly even revisions. (The same atmosphere informed, to more effective results, Mike de Leon’s last commercial-format movie.) Brocka’s attempts are highly uneven, but when they work, they do so in unexpected ways, notably the clowning of Gina Pareño in the suspenseful expository portions and the rejection of reconciliation (and thus predictable sainthood) by the Lorna Tolentino character in the end.

Only time can tell how far Brocka can push this method (and look, no caps!); although widely practiced among local directors, so far only one, Ishmael Bernal, could exploit it and still retain some measure of integrity. Emmanuel H. Borlaza, for his part, has used it to better advantage in the past. Paano Tatakasan ang Bukas? evinces no perceptible amount of conviction whatsoever, save for the regionalist humor of Chanda Romero; the tandem between director and actress recalls their glory days in regional (Cebuano-language) cinema, although Paano Tatakasan may be forward-looking in its own way too. About midway through the story the lead character starts spouting evangelical propaganda, and the others straightaway follow suit. The instance demonstrates the supreme incompatibility of a conservative movement seeking legitimacy via a still-radical medium of expression; it upholds one’s faith in film just as it exposes the hypocrisy of moralists, who just as easily would have us reject the medium for its alleged immoral influences.

The upshot then of this triple-fare viewing is that Sa Puso Ko Hahalik and Mundo may prove to be the least offensive, and therefore the most preferable, of the three. Well, nuts to the naïve. Sa Puso Ko is the most effective precisely because it dares to offend the most, and manages to sustain this mode of presentation, sometimes referred to as camp, to an admirably intolerable degree. Yet there is a value in Sa Puso Ko more felt than visualized. Where previous local efforts in modern-day camp, notably by the likes of Joey Gosiengfiao, proved too calculated (and therefore self-defeating), Sa Puso Ko contains the same deadly sincerity that made the same director’s previous outing, The Untold Story of Melanie Marquez, so difficult to dismiss in the face of its wholly dismissible material.

Sa Puso Ko in fact does one better by having not one but three lead characters delineating impossibly lachrymose tales within the all-too-ludicrous contexts of virginity, proletarian dignity, and filial piety. This plus the added advantage of fictional premises have provided Artemio Marquez with what may arguably be his mortal best, Brocka and Borlaza notwithstanding. And so this is what one sometimes gets for giving a well-intentioned film practitioner a well-deserved break. No mind-blowing mergence of art and craft, or sheer commercialist actuations. Just a curiously convoluted and intellectually refracted achievement of sorts. The mark of a master lies in how easy to make the whole thing seems to be, until you try to figure out a personal project along the same lines. You could just wind up smiling.

[First published November 9, 1988, in National Midweek]


[1] When this article was written, the only available genuine (guild-formed) academy group was the Film Academy of the Philippines (FAP), whose name was shared by the oldest continuous award-giving body, the Filipino Academy of Movie Arts and Sciences or FAMAS – which in turn actually comprised older movie press members; the younger press practitioners formed the Philippine Movie Press Club (PMPC) with their own set of prizes, called Star Awards; the specialized type of movie press was the Manunuri ng Pelikulang Pilipino (or Filipino film reviewers circle), which was formed in response to the increasingly detectable influence-peddling in the FAMAS. Since then, the FAP has had a splinter group, as did the PMPC, each of which also hands out awards. The MPP, which is actually dominated by academics, generated two other types of award-givers: a teachers group, and another academe-based group calling themselves the Young Critics Circle. (Personal disclosure: along with another member, Mauro Feria Tumbocon Jr., I was involved with the MPP and the YCC, as well as with a third critics group called Kritika.)

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After the Revolution

Directed by Lino Brocka
Written by Jose F. Lacaba

The inveterate optimist’s reward for enduring an inordinately long dry spell in Philippine cinema, after a commendable inundation that should never have ended (but did anyway), has arrived in the form of, well, a Filipino film that’s alien-produced, concerning a local subject that’s universally topical, and with short-term consequences that should be urgently overridden in the light of significant long-term implications. Orapronobis, Lino Brocka’s latest cause célèbre, stands to be the most significant closing film of an impressive decade in the history of Philippine cinema – and although a handful of other films (Brocka’s own included) may have equal if not greater artistic value, Orapronobis holds the additional distinction of being the first arguably superlative Filipino movie since the February 1986 revolution.

Gina Alajar as an abducted activist who avenges the death of her son in Lino Brocka’s Orapronobis (1989).

It also arrives, like those twin big-city masterpieces – Ishmael Bernal’s Manila by Night and Brocka’s Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag – in a swirl of controversies complicated no end by the project’s internationality this time around. No doubt discourses on the director’s differences with his foreign financiers and own government, plus the movie’s inherent capability of provoking debates on ideological and public-relations policy issues, contain the potential to continue beyond the resolutions of whatever problems can be formulated, for whatever motives possible. This is the main reason why Orapronobis is being discussed by practically every major opinionist who happens to have an outlet for publication or broadcast. And the determination of the movie’s ultimate worth being buried in the avalanche of articulate, well-meaning, but conflicting points set loose by political perturbations remains, as lawyers love to put it, a clear and present danger.

Orapronobis would probably be a fitting marker for the end of its director’s second decade in his profession – or, for that matter, the beginning of his third. Like any other Filipino filmmaker gifted with vision and intelligence, Brocka would be the last to admit that his career has been a tranquil and restful one. To make matters worse (for himself, that is), he happened to assume the extra burden of pioneering for Philippine cinema in foreign shores. It would be only logical to conclude three things, each proceeding from the other: that Brocka’s artistry, intersected as it had been at about the midpoint of his career so far by international attention, would exhibit permutations unique to his case; that these would be more difficult to analyze than similar case studies of local directors, since internationalized interactions presumably induce a system of dialectics which may be occasionally complementary with, but which may also at other times be tangential or opposed to, that of local dynamics; and finally, it would take even the most sincere and driven director (and Brocka is nothing if not one) quite a time, given these constraints, before he can come up with a definitive body of work.

Orapronobis is proof positive of the last conclusion. Prior to this, the only truly major movies Brocka ever made were Maynila and Miguelito: Batang Rebelde; naturally, the course of his international impaction did not always conform to the pattern formed by these three titles. If anything, Brocka became better – and unfairly, if I may say so – known for efforts that were minor to a fault, minimalist in style, and badly balanced by what could only be explained as an overeager willingness to please an ill-advised combination of foreign admirers and the local masses, neglecting the crucial element of local observers (including the community of artists Brocka belongs to). Ultimately the director will be known as more than just another Third-World filmmaker. With the three aforementioned titles, a case can be made for his versatility in three disparate and difficult film approaches: documentary realism in Maynila, milieu formation in Miguelito, and advocatory moviemaking in Orapronobis. Each milestone holds its own significance with respect to Brocka’s career development. Maynila was a stunning coup d’essai, coming as it did without any antecedent among any of the major talents (apart from Brocka, scriptwriter Clodualdo del Mundo Jr., cinematographer Mike de Leon, and lead performer Rafael Roco Jr.) associated with it; Miguelito displayed the range and extent of Brocka’s discipline in being able to pick up from what he had left off more than a decade earlier, improving on a better-forgotten first attempt in Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang; Orapronobis, for its part, has drawn directly from a number of impassioned works but responded to the need to depart from a scantiness of details and devices on the one hand and a surfeit of bathos on the other.

Of particular interest in this last instance is Bayan Ko (Kapit sa Patalim), the previous collaboration between Brocka and Orapronobis’s writer Jose F. Lacaba. Released locally the same year as Miguelito, Bayan Ko managed to ride a crest of sentiment swollen by the anti-dictatorship movement (which had resulted in the temporary interdiction of the movie and incarceration of its director), sufficient to surpass in critical attention not just its superior contemporary but also a number of other better works. Ironically the 1986 revolution, in negating Bayan Ko’s source of suffering, did the same to its artistic raison d’être, in effect allowing its basic thematic weakness of justifying both proletarian nobility and lumpenist imperatives in the same character to now become a commanding concern. Such historical reversals may soon similarly obtain in the case of Orapronobis, but in the opposite direction. Reviled, at least in certain quarters, where Bayan Ko was admired, the current opus will definitely be capable of prevailing on its own merits as film – that is, if it manages to survive what is turning out to be typical establishment resistance to its divulgence of disillusionment and dissent.

The achievement is all the more noteworthy when one considers that Bayan Ko essentially constituted a throwback to Maynila, in the sense that the intention was for the viewer’s perception of reality to be transformed after the viewing experience; no plastic manipulations were imposed on reality as raw material, and at one point the action was in fact transposed to an ongoing protest march, rather than, as in Maynila, the march being staged for more effective filmic exploitation. Comparatively, Orapronobis consigns documentary events onscreen to the onslaught of a narrative which has drawn voraciously from known facts – hence sandwiching the presentation between history, on the one hand, and realistic imagery, on the other. The method would be daring for those who happen to share the movie’s conclusions, but even those who don’t will have to admit that cleverness of a high order is involved herein: the post-experiential transformation of reality may or may not take place, depending upon one’s ideological position, but in the meantime an alteration has already been accomplished, facilitated by the act of viewing itself, and the return to a stance of disagreement would require a strong (and possibly disturbing) triumph of the will.

The matter becomes clearer when one reduces Orapronobis to its most basic level of argumentation. All possible worst-scenario charges against the existing political dispensation are stacked up front, crowding out in the end any possible apology (as represented by the lead character’s initial frame of mind) for even the minutest offense. There is nothing really dramatic about this sort of attitude: in fact the only motivation, if we may extend our definition, allowed the main antagonist is that he suffers from a psychosis stemming from a lethal combination of colonialism, religiosity, and machismo. Yet in a schematic way the movie manages to convey a cautionary world-view that surpasses even the commonplace businesses that it purports to treat. If domestic relationships are regarded, as well they may be in Philippine culture, as basis for an ideal, then the movie’s protagonists can be seen to function in a context not far removed from the potential for abusiveness and callousness that their enemies have gone over into. The lead’s underground contact turns out to be a hit man who targets a policeman shown as having a family of his own (cf. the more exploitative treatment of this recent urban-guerrilla strategy in the previous Brocka international release, Macho Dancer); more saliently, the lead himself ultimately abandons his wife and newborn child to rejoin the underground movement, more in retaliation for the death of his illegitimate family than from any need for personal security.

The performances constitute a vital aspect in delineating this state of affairs. The legal wife’s predicament works only in retrospect mainly because Dina Bonnevie, despite a strong presence, loses out to the skills of Gina Alajar, who may originally have been intended as a foil, an impetus to the male lead’s change of heart, but actually succeeds in becoming a dominating figure in the movie through the sheer resplendency of her portrayal. Phillip Salvador is for once given again the opportunity to work with a fully rounded character, this time smoothing out the rough edges observable in Jaguar (his first film and the first Brocka-Lacaba collaboration, with co-writer Ricardo Lee). Jaguar though would be more instructive than coincidental this time around: here the antagonist, unlike that of Bembol Roco in Orapronobis, is treated with enough sympathy to create an involving conflict between him and the title character.

Hence the means by which Orapronobis elicits audience alertness is not so much representational as technical. It would be valid, though somewhat pedantic, to say that montage is actually the main actor in the movie – the engrossing alternation between romanticism and paranoia, the intricate correlation between imagery and anxiety, and finally the successful transmutation of symbols of personal comfort (religion, politics, even escapist cinema) into objects of social menace. When an editor – actually three of them in the opening credits – doesn’t hesitate to use jump cuts to compress time, then she knows and appreciates her film language; but when she uses them to facilitate transitions and make narrative commentaries in the process (as in the use of the religious-icon insert in the final rape scene), then she has progressed beyond film language to imaginative storytelling. Mature editorial judgments resist the usual confinements of style and genre; although essentially a political thriller, with several shots timed at split-seconds, Orapronobis’s climax comprises a series of prolonged takes, the longest of which consists of an excruciating yet exhilarating slow zoom into the lead character rocking his dead son in church.[1]

It may be said, on the basis of Orapronobis, that an aspect of Brocka’s artistic persona may have died along with his long-time cinematographer Conrado Baltazar. Gone are the cavernous compositions and light-and-shadow interplay that used to suggest more than what the script was capable of conveying. This is not to say, however, that Brocka has merely returned to the functionalism of his early, pre-Tinimbang Ka movies. What the latest work suggests is that the director has become more confident with the tools of his medium and may now pay more attention to how these can be made to serve the purposes of straightforward storytelling – not in the manner of recreating history in terms of imagery or narratory momentum, but through the realization of a vision whose relationship with actualities becomes secondary to its awareness of and approach to film. All told, Orapronobis bodes both ways for Philippine cinema in the next decade – or what we should all hope to be another Golden Age, if not a continuation of the previous one. It confirms the increasing technical sophistication of Filipino filmmakers even as it dares to challenge and reverse popular notions of existing reality. What ought to be anticipated is the reflexive backlash against such an appropriation of what has long been the jurisdiction of social institutions, rather than entertainment industries: the privilege to uphold or change values or attitudes. No doubt experience has proved that artists do it better, and less painfully besides, but then it’s the other types who maintain positions of influence in the end.

As for the particular artist behind Orapronobis, the time may well be near when a Brocka film could be appreciated fully on its own, rather than as part of an indispensable body of work, no matter how impressively sustained the individual entries may be. In this regard a long-time lesson from that part of the world where he has been introduced to the global film community could serve as appropriate starting point. Not long before Lino Brocka began making films, the French managed to prove, first in theory and then in New-Wave practice, that several styles may be successfully combined in singular works, which in turn would be limited only by their filmmakers’ command of the styles being used. When the next major Brocka movie would be putting to use in one summarist masterpiece his accumulation of skills through the years, instead of the pursuit of too-distinctive modes of expression and content, might just be one of the more welcome developments in the near future of Philippine cinema.

[First published January 10, 1990, in National Midweek]


[1] For some reason one non-Filipino scholar, in writing about Orapronobis, seized on these passages in a Pauline Kael-style demolition of responses by Philippine commentators, minus Kael’s thoroughness (he held up an exception) and expert grasp of filmmaking processes. He described the insight as “keen” and “very astute,” then proceeded to fault the use of “highly aestheticizing language…. While David’s sharp critical comments stand, they are in danger of being lost in the precious supplications of the aesthete” (Beller 159) – a definite consequence if one were to isolate the paragraph from the rest of the review, duh.

Elsewhere the author describes Orapronobis and Manila by Night as instances of “socialist realism” (145 & 159 resp.), an even more mystifying conclusion, since neither presidential regime under which these were produced (Ferdinand Marcos’s and Corazon Aquino’s resp.) was socialist in name or in practice; nor were the directors hard-line members of the Communist Party of the Philippines when the films were made. It would be reasonable to speculate that both Lino Brocka and Ishmael Bernal would hesitate (to say the least) in appreciating actual samples of socialist-realist cinema and adopting these as worthy models, outside of comic camp traditions. See Jonathan Beller, Acquiring Eyes: Philippine Visuality, Nationalist Struggle, and the World-Media System (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2006).

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Book Texts – Moving Picture: World’s Shortest Prequel

Floodwaters in certain parts of Sampaloc district would rise chest-high by grade-schooler’s proportions as recently as during the late 1960s, and my brothers and I would wallow through invisible potholes and visible sewage just to be able to get home in time to avoid alerting the household to our absence. It didn’t seem as depressing as it sounds, because soon as we got home we’d drop paper boats from the window sill and marvel at how automobile spillage would form rainbow-colored patterns amid the raindrops and waves. How to convey the values and dimensions of this primal aesthetic experience, beauty in detritus, has been the greater challenge of my work as film critic and teacher. Often my impatience has engendered a style that’s reflective of both aspects of such a childhood impression – didactic, I think, but with an incongruous informality. Formal college-level training dwelled on the incompatibility of the combination, and so my early work tended to assume the tone of Moses mandating monotheism on Mount Sinai, handing down revelations whose densities abhorred loose or open ends.

The further from academe I grew, the less self-conscious my notions of style became; at the same time I could not help but uphold the same standards for the works I selected for evaluation. With the inevitable maturation of my personal faculties, I somehow approached an ideal (rarely achieved, of course) of readability amid discourse complicated even for myself. Necessarily this involved periods of selectivity as well as rest and consolidation, but methinks the consequences are different for critics who rely on exigencies of artistic production, rather than artists who depend on critical evaluation; for in the final analysis, the artist could assume critical functions, at the very least for herself, while the critic can never really work in a vacuum, even (or perhaps especially) when working on theoretical issues.

I do badly regret not having come of age during the start of my self-proclaimed second Golden Age of Philippine cinema during the mid-seventies, although I suspect that more effective groundwork had been accomplished during the more turbulent pre-martial law years. As a college-fresh neophyte who honed my fangs on political and economic animadversions, I could draw from the likes of, say, Aliw and Aguila, but Manila by Night and Kakabakaba Ka Ba? from the same period seemed too intricate to unravel and too deep to reach then. I found sufficient leeway to try various approaches thereafter, but at the expense of otherwise praiseworthy attempts in Angela Markado and Batch ’81. And just when I decided to return to school, for which I had to hold down a job – both as full-time preoccupations, out came a full and consistent flowering of films, unaware even that late of the searing effect of the then-forthcoming February 1986 people-power uprising.

Only afterward could I graduate from chronicler to confident commentator, with the rather desperate optimism that, like what happened after the early post-martial rule dry spell, another Golden Age would not be long in following. Invariably my appreciation of paper boats and grease rainbows made the excursion through Manila’s bloodstreams worth the plunge. Along the way I could get my fill of doing retrospective commentaries, but then the best part consisted of divining what could come next and occasionally seeing it fulfilled in some form or other.

Alternative author’s pic for The National Pastime, taken by National Midweek official photographer Gil Nartea.

My list of great film-writers all have some profound contradictions crisscrossing their works, and this, more than anything else, makes reading them doubly difficult. Given the luxury of a lifetime, I’m sure I’ll be developing a few swivels and turnabouts here and there; already I know which of my past output, aside from the ones I’ve already mentioned, I could renounce in the name of personal progress, but meantime I did write them once, and became interested enough to stand by them even through the trauma of publication. So they appear as they do now, contextualized only by their respective dates of issue, in order to maybe show how far I’ve come (or gone), and perhaps qualify the shortcomings of the worthier items.

There’ll be an entire future to face, marked in the meantime by the impending close of the current century. Film, as I’d written elsewhere, will undergo further and radical transformations in terms of technology and approach, and what we consider Third-World practice is on an ascendency. There won’t be just floodwaters to cross, there’ll be entire oceans to swim, and though by then I might be sounding different, difficult even, I guess we’ll all be lucky, though we’ve long deserved it, to be where it’s at come the time.

[First published October 3, 1990 in National Midweek]

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Book Texts – A Second Golden Age

When Ishmael Bernal used the exact same term “Second Golden Age” in his last major interview, with Aruna Vasudev (16-23), I knew that it had effectively supplanted Bienvenido Lumbera’s coinage “New Philippine Cinema” in his “Problems in Philippine Film History” (193-212).[1] Not that that was my intention though; in fact I deliberately maintained a non-titular preference for the uncapitalized “second,” even though I succumbed to standard capitalization practice later. The essay was the opening salvo (to use Patrick D. Flores’s review description) in a series of provocations that I was hoping would initiate productive, even dissentious, exchanges. Yet even the negative responses to The National Pastime seemed willing to accept, or maybe reluctant to question, the premise behind the assertion that the martial-law era ironically provided a fecund playing field for cinema, or shall we say Ciné-mah.

My own attempt at questioning the Golden Ages idea was (to me) too late, too rushed, and too reasonable (see “The Golden Ages of Philippine Cinema: A Critical Reassessment”), even if it also happened to be the first to do so. On the other hand, my elaboration of the aesthetic issues raised in the present article (via Fields of Vision’s “The ‘New’ Cinema in Retrospect”) appears increasingly defensive and interminable, the longer I look back on it. Nevertheless I submit that the following article encapsulates Marcos-era film policy and its overall-favorable impact on film practice, as well as film observers’ urgent need to find useful historical frameworks for further applications (and incidentally, to fellow Nora Aunor fans: “Performances of the Age” is only a section of the present article, not a stand-alone write-up). “A Second Golden Age” was originally published in the October-December 1989 issue of the Cultural Center of the Philippines journal Kultura (pp. 14-26 – p. 14 is below), then edited by Bien Lumbera; its title was modified by the publisher of The National Pastime (where it appeared on pp. 1-17) to include the parenthesized phrase “An Informal History.” To jump to later sections, click here for:

Click the pic to open a PDF scan of a photocopy of the original article.

Talk has been current, but not ardent enough, about the recent conclusion of a second Golden Age in Philippine cinema. Of course the notion of a Golden Age has its share of reputable disputants. No less than Eddie Romero, who surged forward at the start of what may be considered our filmic Golden Age II, cited ancient Greece in claiming that no such period of clear and concentrated artistic achievement could be reasonably circumscribed anywhere. On the other hand lies a just-as-ancient necessity of defining parameters for purposes of easier classification and, more important, to enable contemporary observers to draw significant lessons therefrom. Presuming that Golden Ages do exist, no other period becomes more needful in finding out how and why they do than that immediately following the conclusion of such a one.

More to the point of Romero’s argument, however, would be the obvious difficulty in pinpointing specific periods of artistic productivity. The flowering of Athenian culture could be studied intensively within the context of entire centuries of ancient Greek life; true, certain important artists and philosophers were contemporaries of one another – but this was more of the exception, the rule being one major practitioner being followed, chronologically speaking, by another who would either break away from the elder’s school or tradition, or venture completely on her own in a new, unpredictable direction.

The soundness of Romero’s assertion actually derives from the fail-safe construction of his logic. Nothing in human history can ever compare to the Greeks’ cultural exploits – and so, if we grant that they never had a Golden Age, then there never could have been any such thing since. Rather than despair over our modern-day limitations in the face of such insurmountable criteria of excellence, I believe we could do well enough in assessing ourselves for more sober, though perhaps less immortalizing, reasons. By this account a Golden Age need not be a wholly intensive and sustained national outbreak of cultural creativity. A limited period in a specific field, defined according to the concentration of output relative to periods preceding and succeeding it, should prove adequate for the moment.

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Golden Age I

The first Golden Age in Philippine cinema has had slightly varied reckonings of its exact duration.[2] All, however, agree to the inclusion of the entire decade of the 1950s. The most important feature of this period was the political stability brought about by postwar reconstruction and the aggressive suppression of the Communist insurgency, paralleled in film by the stabilization of the studio system.

That this phase ever came to a close indicates the short-sightedness of the solutions being applied. Reconstruction commits itself only to the attainment of a previous level of accomplishment (in this case the prewar situation), whereas insurgency addresses itself to the overthrow of a government on the basis of a problem – agrarian reform – more persistent that its leaders’ understandable aspirations to political power. The movie industry’s studio system, in seeking to institutionalize professionalism and (incidentally?) control the means of distribution, overlooked the natural inclination of talents, including stars, to seek more abundant means of remuneration outside the system if necessary, as well as the willingness of independent production outfits to forsake the studios’ long-term advantages and meet the demands of talents in return for faster and more immediate profits.

Hence the interval between the first and the second Golden Ages saw the rise of the independents and the superstars, backgrounded by the revitalization of the peasant-based insurgency and an engineered economic instability that paved the way for the imposition and eventual acceptance of fascist rule.

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A Near-Golden Age

The declaration of martial law in 1972 promoted hopes for an end to the country’s political and economic difficulties. It also may have forestalled a creative resurgency in local moviemaking, brought about through a subsequently admitted social experiment by censors chief and presidential adviser Guillermo de Vega, who was later assassinated under mysterious circumstances.

A casual view of the products of the pre-martial law seventies reveals what we might have been headed for: socially conscious and psychologically frank products, without a compulsion to alienate the vast majority of moviegoers, even in the most artistic instances. Apparently neutral or even antipathetic projects actually allowed for a lot of leeway in the selection of material and permutations of form and expression. Most significant was the proliferation of bomba or hard-core sex films, the direct result of de Vega’s extreme libertarianism; but just as important were the counter-reactions, the musicals and love triangles, that provided relief in opposing formats, even for serious practitioners. Moreover, regional (Cebuano-language) cinema had mellowed at the latter portion of a wondrously long curve, providing assurances of alternatives for Manila-based practitioners (which included Emmanuel H. Borlaza and Leroy Salvador), as well as an additional stable for the recruitment of onscreen talent, notably the Amado Cortez – Gloria Sevilla and Eddie Mesa – Rosemarie Gil clans.

Ismael Bernal came up with the last major black-and-white Filipino film and the most important debut of his generation with Pagdating sa Dulo. Lino Brocka, who was to share with Bernal the rivalry for artistic supremacy in the Golden Age that was to come, rebounded quick with a pair of highly inspired komiks-adapted titles for his studio base, Lea Productions, namely Stardoom and Tubog sa Ginto, plus an otherwise effective Fernando Poe Jr. epic, Santiago. This era, rather than the mid-seventies as commonly supposed, also signalled the maturation of Celso Ad. Castillo. In another Poe-starrer, Asedillo, as well as in a horrific bomba entry, Nympha, he exhibited a fascination for unconventional visual values and thematic daring, properties that were to serve him well during the latter part of the decade.

Other names associated with academe- and theater-based artist circles made their mark with relatively serious attempts, including Elwood Perez with Blue Boy and Nestor U. Torre with Crush Ko si Sir. Perhaps more significantly, a number of scriptwriters who were to figure prominently during the forthcoming Golden Age first emerged here, with either solo or shared credits: Torre with his debut film, Bernal with Luis Enriquez’s Ah, Ewan! Basta sa Maynila Pa Rin Ako!,[3] and Orlando Nadres with Tony Cayado’s Happy Hippie Holiday. Brocka, after writing for Luciano B. Carlos’s Arizona Kid, provided breaks for several scriptwriting aspirants, among them Nadres with Stardoom, Mario O’Hara with Lumuha Pati mga Anghel, and Alfred Yuson with Cherry Blossoms.

Right after Marcos’s martial-rule clampdown, and in a sense a consequence of the aforementioned near-anarchic (and therefore procreative) bent, came names like Peque Gallaga and Buth Perez with Binhi, Romy Suzara with Tatlong Mukha ni Rosa Vilma, Jun Raquiza with Dalawang Mukha ng Tagumpay, and George Rowe with Paru-Parung Itim, Nora Aunor’s first production, serious film, and (it wasn’t to be the last such combination) box-office flop. Rolando Tinio wrote for Bernal’s Now and Forever and Ricardo Lee, using the pseudonym R.H. Laurel, for the late Armando Garces’s Dragnet.

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Pre-Golden Age II

Critics currently carping at the discernible decline in the quality of film output relative to the period prior to the 1986 revolution should actually have more to be grateful for, aside from the usual evolutionary benefits of better technology and more formalized media, even film-specific, education. At least an excess of film awards, a heritage of the just-concluded second Golden Age, ensures that truly deserving products will now have a greater chance of acquiring recognition, no matter how belated. In the first half of the seventies all we ever really had was the Filipino Academy of Movie Arts and Sciences (FAMAS), then suffering a downswing in sensibility from which it has never fully recovered; and so, despite the long list of titles mentioned above, its early seventies best-film winners were forgettables like Kill the Pusher, Mga Anghel na Walang Langit, Nueva Vizcaya, and Gerardo de Leon’s regrettable Lilet.

Keeping the faith were Bernal, Perez, and Joey Gosiengfiao with their usually combinative Sine Pilipino/Juan de la Cruz Productions; Castillo with his horror films; Raquiza with this thrillers; Suzara with his sober dramas; and Nora Aunor with her admirable acting vehicles, including the only project that could boast of crediting both de Leon and Lamberto Avellana, the omnibus Fe, Esperanza, Caridad.

It was Brocka, however, who returned from a period of inactivity with two productions that combined the then-impossible characteristics of being both major and personal, Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang in 1974 and Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag in 1975. The direct beneficiaries of this renewal of artistic consciousness in film included Brocka himself, with his three-in-one Tatlo, Dalawa, Isa; Perez with his three-in-one Isang Gabi, Tatlong Babae!; Gosiengfiao with the last Filipino black-and-white movie La Paloma, ang Kalapating Ligaw; Castillo with his careful revivification of the bomba (later to be called “bold” and initiated with the wet look) in Ang Pinakamagandang Hayop sa Balat ng Lupa; and Bernal with Mister Mo, Lover Boy Ko.

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Golden Age II: Beginnings

Maynila could properly serve as the marker for the second Golden Age of Philippine cinema. It was a more precious and accomplished work than the same director’s Tinimbang, and ushered in a tendency toward new talents and novel projects that was to intensify in the coming year. Brockas’s triumphs, overwhelming even the FAMAS, can be regarded as the conclusive cause, especially in the light of his current and still single-handed renewal of filmic consciousness, this time on an international scale, with his post-’86 works Macho Dancer and Orapronobis.

There are, however, other attributable semi- or even non-industrial reasons for the phenomenon. The relative sanguinity brought about by the sudden infusion of foreign loans (before these assumed malignant proportions), coupled with the enforced stability of early martial rule, encouraged several newly prosperous entities to invest their money in a business that could be both glamorous and profitable. The youthful mass audience of the early seventies was prepared for a divergence and diversification of its favorite diversion, which was to culminate in a sophistication of its command of visual language that may still be extant at present. De Vega’s widow, Ma. Rocio, took over after his death and, for some reason or other, saw fit to return to his pre-martial law policy of libertarianism – which the military was to exploit as an excuse for its small-scale takeover of film-censorship prerogatives.

Maynila’s impact was meanwhile long-ranging enough, boosted as it was by the earlier success of Tinimbang, and a whole new breed of filmmakers came to the fore; in chronological order: Lupita Concio (later Kashiwara) with Alkitrang Dugo, Eduardo Palmos co-directing Saan Ka Pupunta, Miss Lutgarda Nicolas?, Behn Cervantes 1976’s first debutant with Sakada, O’Hara with Mortal, Dindo Angeles with Sinta! Ang Bituing Bagong Gising, Gil Portes with Tiket Mama, Tiket Ale, sa Linggo ang Bola, and Mike de Leon with Itim.

And these were just the ones who either started big or had major follow-up projects. A cursory look at the 1976 Filipino filmography would reveal a handful of other new names which would probably be of interest to those determined to delve deeper into the dynamics of the period. Again, however, the writers ought to sustain more productive study than the also-rans: Clodualdo del Mundo Jr. was responsible for the adaptation of Maynila from the novel by Edgardo Reyes, who himself was to cross over presently into the medium with Bernal’s Ligaw na Bulaklak. Preceding them were newsmen Antonio Mortel and Diego Cagahastian, who co-wrote Mister Mo, Lover Boy Ko, and fictionists Alberto Florentino and Wilfredo Nolledo, who were to be joined shortly by Jose F. Lacaba in Gosiengfiao’s omnibus Babae … Ngayon at Kailanman. Mauro Gia Samonte was to write for Castillo’s Tag-ulan sa Tag-araw, Jorge Arago for Bernal’s Nunal sa Tubig, and Marina Feleo-Gonzalez for Kashiwahara’s Minsa’y Isang Gamu-gamo. Lamberto Antonio collaborated with O’Hara on Brocka’s Insiang, Roy Iglesias with Eddie Romero on the latter’s Ganito Kami Noon … Paano Kayo Ngayon?, and Gil Quito with del Mundo (and Ricardo Lee without credit) on Mike de Leon’s Itim.

Sakada would have been the military establishment’s typical target for repression, but it unfortunately enjoyed the endorsement of de Vega; Danilo Cabreira’s Uhaw na Bulaklak, Part II served the purpose even better, deflecting as it did potentially confrontational politics toward the issue of moral rectitude; typically again, both titles had new writers-Lualhati Bautista and Oscar Miranda (with an uncredited Reuel Aguila) for the former, Franklin Cabaluna for the latter.

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Guideposts for the Times

Three developments, all of the same kind, served to temper the disheartening reality of the military’s assumption of local film censorship. The fact that the reconstituted body announced itself as “interim” in nature, implying an eventual return to civilian rule, was belied by its initial action of enforcing stricter measures, to the point of requiring the approval of storylines and screenplays and imposing a code that seemed deliberately directed against the output of serious practitioners. An entire catalog of anecdotes, sometimes humorous and often infuriating, primarily comprising dialogs between military censors and intelligent film practitioners, awaits documentation and will definitely help in particularizing the naïveté and arrogance of Filipinos suddenly imbued with power and influence.

The already mentioned developments actually consist of the introduction of award-giving mechanisms by three sectors that were to make bids of varying degrees of urgency on mass media in general, and film in particular: the Catholic Church, government, and intelligentsia. The Catholic sector, in reviving its Citizens’ Award for Television, expanded it to encompass locally existent media of communications. Significantly, the first best-film winner of the Catholic Mass Media Award was Nunal sa Tubig, which had seen rough sailing with the censors. The government, for its part, centralized all the annual city festivals in the newly organized metropolitan area in one major undertaking held during the lucrative spell between Christmas and New Year. The first few editions were either idealistic or disorganized or both, so that sensible film producers tended toward a policy of reserving prestige productions for this season. Despite occasional protestations from the bloc of foreign-film distributors and an ill-advised attempt to require developmental messages during the late seventies, the Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF) has endured as the government’s singular contribution to the pursuit of quality in local cinema, its awards being coveted not so much for the prestige they bestow as for the free and favorable publicity they afford otherwise commercially imperiled releases.

The third, and for our purposes the most important, film awards for this period consist of those handed out by the reviewers’ circle, the Manunuri ng Pelikulang Pilipino (MPP), organized in 1976 and barely in time for the first flowering of the second Golden Age. The Urian awards, as these were called, served to recall and amplify the impact of the first MMFF in their echoing of the latter’s best-picture choice, Ganito Kami Noon. In fact the FAMAS, so as not to be left too far behind, selected another MMFF entry, Minsa’y Isang Gamu-gamo, for its top-prize winner, and observed the Urian’s dark-horse selection of Nora Aunor as the year’s best actress for her performance in her latest flop-production, O’Hara’s Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos. The Urian remained the most serious award-giving body for the most part of its first decade of existence, employing a system of viewing assignments, repeated screenings, and exhaustive deliberations that would have proved perfect had it been implemented conscientiously and consistently. Whatever the turnout of the MPP’s choices for any given year, the fact remains that its nominations were generally reliable reflections of the industry’s achievements in the medium, and thereby serve as better indicators of the state of the art than the awards themselves.

This point was to be driven home as early as the next year of its existence. Where the MMFF actually defied the cultural establishment, which responded by withdrawing the prizes it handed out to Castillo’s Burlesk Queen, the Urian responded against the film as a representation of the MMFF’s process, selecting an academically defensible but less artistically vital entry as its year’s winner, and coming around to the Burlesk Queen filmmaker by awarding his next-year entry, which like the previous year’s winner was period and epic in scope. Such subjectivity of vision, coupled by a preference for underdog nominees, prompted Brocka, the fourth best-director awardee, to castigate the group and reject its future commendations. Nevertheless, as mentioned earlier, the MPP’s process right up to the deliberation of prizewinners was refined enough to ensure the accommodation of accomplishments that were major by the reasonably highest possible standards of filmic evaluation.

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Four Peaks

By this account it becomes evident that the performance output of the local film industry’s best and brightest tended to observe peaks and valleys, instead of a consistent (and therefore easily predictable) plateau or slope. The first was of course the already described beginning, that yielded Maynila on one end and Ganito Kami Noon on the other. The second was a good four years after, when the highest artistic point of the Golden Age and, by reasonable extension, of Philippine cinema thus far, was attained with Bernal’s Manila by Night. Afterward major-status entries on the order of Bernal’s innovations with filmic milieu arrived with regular frequency, with Marilou Diaz-Abaya’s Moral two years later; Brocka’s Miguelito: Batang Rebelde still another three years after would close the era, curiously with the same director who helped open it.

This regularity of productivity was in fact cut short by the 1986 revolution, in much the same way that Proclamation 1081 ended the early seventies’ creative outbursts. Sociopolitical upheavals may be the most obvious, but definitely not the only, similarities between the periods in question. Prior to 1986, as before 1972, an era of moral permissiveness held sway in cinema. Immediately after the upheavals, audiences tended to shy away from moviegoing, and had to be lured back with blatantly commercial products that all but outlawed conscious attempts at artistry. The second Golden Age in this regard was distinguished by some of the riskiest filmmaking projects in local history: during the turn of the decade, one movie after another vied in laying claim to being the most expensive Filipino production ever, with audiences seemingly willing to reward these efforts if only for the sheer audacity of the claims.

Each artistic peak mentioned, in fact, also had clusters of other big-budget, even period productions attending it. Maynila was period by necessity, since early martial rule forbade derogatory references to the Marcos regime;[4] Ganito Kami Noon combined an ideological concern – the origin of “Filipino” as a historical designation – with the period of its metamorphosis, the transition from Spanish to American colonial rule. Romero was to further flesh out his pursuit of the identity of the Filipino with some other big-budget and period titles: Aguila, which covered the current century; Kamakalawa, which was situated during the pre-Spanish mythological era; and Hari sa Hari, Lahi sa Lahi, which was begun during but released after the Golden Age, and set also during the pre-Spanish era of regional trade relations. None of these other movies attained the balance between technical competence (Aguila would have been the closest) and storytelling superiority (Kamakalawa excelled only in this aspect) manifested by Ganito Kami Noon, and meanwhile Romero, who was a movie-generation removed from Brocka and Bernal, was exceeded in medium-based modernization by the practitioners who were to follow.

Brocka, on his part, responded to international exposure with a deliberate and sometimes disconcerting minimalization of his filmic abilities. Insiang, Jaguar, Angela Markado, Bona, PX, Cain at Abel, and Bayan Ko (Kapit sa Patalim) (in order of release) all may have followed Maynila chronologically, but actually antedate it in terms of the filmmaker’s capability of matching sweeping social concerns with an appropriately expansive vision. Aside from this, their distinction of having had international exposure in various festival venues here and abroad could perhaps only develop a case for Brocka as an auteur in the now-conventional sense of the word, where one work will have to be viewed in relation to all the rest before it could be appreciated. Miguelito, on the other hand, as a vastly improved reworking of Tinimbang Ka, is a contemporary but still-critical view of the body politic with its social and, more important, dramatic distensions intact, rather than deflated to microcosmic dimensions as Brocka had been wont to do in the case of the other films.

Bernal benefited the most from the effervescence of this period, mapping out a strategy that may have seemed erratic during the time but which denotes in retrospect the most impressive directorial figuring out and working over of the medium since Gerardo de Leon adopted the principles of deep-focus realism. Like de Leon, Bernal proceeded to adopt a foreign trend, this time the then-emergent character-based multi-narrative process, first experimenting with limited success in Nunal sa Tubig then introducing commercial elements on a more modest scale in Aliw. The greater profitability of the latter, in terms of both audience and critical reception this time, most likely emboldened him enough to return to large-scale businesses in Manila by Night, which in turn may have overstretched his technological capabilities somewhat but also served to accommodate his contributions to an international filmmaking mode, in a way that de Leon never managed to.

Manila by Night in effect proved that a personalized and multi-stylized approach to this manner of presentation of subject matter was possible, and that the filmmaker could choose to oppose the expectation of a final and logical conclusion and still justify an open-endedness in terms of his material. After such an accomplishment a more conventionalized orientation overtook Bernal – one that drew from the domestic dramas and comedies he directed prior to Manila by Night, the most memorable being Ikaw Ay Akin. His only other epic-scale project since, Himala, recalled Nunal sa Tubig in its choice of material (the eternal countryside, as contrasted with the contemporary big city in all of his other films), but the treatment this time observed classic unities rather than the versatilities which had brought him attention in the first place. Bernal’s other multi-character projects fared even less triumphantly, among them Ito Ba ang Ating mga Anak?, Working Girls, and The Graduates. A Working Girls sequel, released after the Golden Age, so dismayed everyone involved that Bernal has since tended to inhibit himself from such ventures, concentrating instead on small-scale projects where he had considerable success right after Manila by Night: Relasyon, Broken Marriage, and Hinugot sa Langit, among others.

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New Generation

Expediently for Brocka and Bernal, as well as Romero and, in a sense, Castillo before them, the second Golden Age lent an aura of legitimacy to the infusion of new blood into the system. Early on Mike de Leon and O’Hara persisted with always prestigious and occasionally remunerative projects; with the arrival of the eighties, the splashy debuts of women directors Marilou Diaz-Abaya and Laurice Guillen recalled the heyday of Kashiwahara, then already inactive.

It was Peque Gallaga, however, who demonstrated that even newcomers could buck the system and turn it to their advantage: first he won the scriptwriting contest of the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines (ECP) for the storyline proposal of Oro, Plata, Mata, then acquired the right to direct it, and saw it right through copping a special jury prize from the Manila International Film Festival (MIFF) as well as major Urian awards, including best film. Curiously, however, succeeding aspirants could not duplicate Gallaga’s procedure; the closest anyone came to doing so was in using the ECP venue, the Manila Film Center (MFC), as Tikoy Aguiluz did for Boatman, rather than directing ECP productions, as Pio de Castro III and Abbo Q. de la Cruz were to discover after finishing Soltero and Misteryo sa Tuwa respectively; in this instance the dynamics of governmental support for the industry supplied the causative factors, and a thorough investigation of the matter would yield invaluable lessons for the future.

Before Gallaga’s virtual one-man coup, the female directors managed to call attention to themselves as viable entities; but how much of the appreciation was prepared by prevalent feminist sentiments still has to be quantified. Guillen had a modest and well-appreciated hit with her first film Kasal?, then after a box-office trauma went on to a more notable achievement with Salome, which won the Urian best-film prize. Diaz-Abaya, on the other hand, saw her first production, Tanikala, sink to the depths of anonymity – and her investment along with it, but rebounded vigorously enough with the MMFF multi-awardee and box-office placer Brutal.

In common with the early ascendency of these two was their scriptwriter, Ricardo Lee. Coming from a shared distinction (with Jose F. Lacaba) for Brocka’s box-office bomb but Urian winner and Cannes Film Festival competition entry Jaguar, Lee had his first solo masterstroke with Brutal and followed up in an even bigger way with Salome. His association with Bernal cemented as consultant for Manila by Night and writer for Ito Ba, Relasyon, and Himala, he proceeded to devise a female-humanist (typically mistaken for early-wave feminist) milieu movie, Moral, which Diaz-Abaya directed. Moral stands as the only other Golden Age product clearly in the same league as Manila by Night; the other possible sharers of this category would be Miguelito and, from the first Golden Age, Gregorio Fernandez’s Malvarosa – both of which suffer inadequacies that disallow declarations of unqualified masterliness within the terms of the multicharacter format. Thereafter Lee’s collaborations with Diaz-Abaya would result in relatively less satisfactory products, particularly Karnal and Alyas Baby Tsina. He subsequently realized higher degrees of literacy in cinema in his scripts for Mel Chionglo’s Sinner or Saint and Chito Roño’s Private Show, produced at the tail end of and released after the Golden Age; more fulfilling accomplishments, however, were awaiting him in other film-related media, notably journalism, metafiction, and playwriting, all of which he would turn to after the Golden Age.

The other directors fared fairly enough in establishing a respectable level of artistic sensibility in their works. Gallaga had a slightly better epic than Oro, Plata, Mata in Virgin Forest, which met with a counter-reaction probably inevitable considering the earliness and eagerness of the initial response that greeted him. After dabbling in melodrama with Unfaithful Wife, he would make one last epic, the fantasy feature Once Upon a Time, which had the misfortune of being released during the period of transition following the Golden Age, when no movie could hope to recoup its investments. Thereafter he would concentrate on and rise in favor again for expertly handling the horror genre, which would facilitate his return to epic filmmaking with Isang Araw Walang Diyos.

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Fringes of the Avant-Garde

Gallaga deserves a more lasting recognition for his revitalization of the sex film in Scorpio Nights, released at about the same period as his Virgin Forest and Aguiluz’s Boatman, and for the same venue, the MFC. In being less defensive about its social conscience, Scorpio Nights turned out to be a more effective evocation of proletarian decadence than any local erotic movie ever made.

Two significant directors, Castillo and Mike de Leon, reached their prime in the medium during the middle part of the Golden Age, then settled for relative obscurity afterward. Castillo came out with a series of mostly sex films that never matched the precocity of Burlesk Queen, while de Leon observed the Stanley Kubrick model, emulated to a lesser extent by Gallaga, of dabbling in one genre after another. His comeback in 1980 after a three-year hiatus resulted in a major-status movie that has managed to outlast all his other works so far, the political absurdist comedy-musical Kakabakaba Ka Ba? Along with Brocka, de Leon became a prominent figure at Cannes, where his subsequent output – the thriller Kisapmata and propagandistic Sister Stella L., plus Batch ’81, his misanthropic contribution to milieu delineation – were exhibited to mostly favorable commentaries. After an excursion into melodrama that disappointed him but not his financiers, de Leon shifted, right with the close of the Golden Age, to video with a feature, Bilanggo sa Dilim, that exemplified his directorial coming-of-age.

O’Hara similarly advanced in expertise as the period wore on. After making a financially fruitful comeback (after an absence about as long as de Leon’s), he came up with a partially successful milieu movie, Bulaklak sa City Jail, and followed up a previous action-thriller, Condemned, with another, Bagong Hari. Mostly O’Hara continued his association with Nora Aunor, who had more resounding results with Brocka and Bernal, but nevertheless managed to augment her store of talent with O’Hara.

One last directorial debutant, Chito Roño, whose Private Show came out almost too late for the Golden Age, bears comparison with the aforementioned names. In the period to come, Brocka, by virtue of his conscious holding back, may have already reprised his role as harbinger of what ought to turn out to be another, or at least an extension of the previous, Golden Age. Chionglo, Gallaga, O’Hara, Roño, Diaz-Abaya, and Guillen are in a position to assume artistic leadership, with Bernal, Castillo, and de Leon making authoritative contributions alongside Brocka, and Romero upholding the value of verified virtues in the craft.

The writer will be privileged with greater responsibility, as indeed almost all of these enumerated individuals are capable of scripting their and others’ works if desirable or necessary. Ricardo Lee will continue holding forth as a major non-directing filmmaker, with del Mundo, Lacaba, and newer members like Jose N. Carreon (Ikaw Ay Akin, Broken Marriage), Jose Dalisay Jr. (Miguelito), Rosauro de la Cruz (Scorpio Nights, Virgin Forest), and Amado Lacuesta Jr. (Hinugot sa Langit, Working Girls) regularly providing thematic worth and structural strength. A number of other writers, including Armando Lao and Bibeth Orteza, may have had apprenticeships during the Golden Age, but would seem to have considerable opportunities of playing the field thence.

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Performances of the Age

Award-sweeping became the in thing, what with the addition of more and overlapping bodies to the already flourishing FAMAS, Urian, MMFF, and CMMA – to wit, the Philippine Movie Press Club (PMPC), with its Star trophy, and the Film Academy of the Philippines (FAP). Two of these, the FAP and the FAMAS, claim to be industry-based recognitions, although the FAP is more systematically organized according to guilds; this advantage of legitimacy also brings with it the disadvantages of the prevalence of popularity choices,[5] just as between the Urian and Star, the former may comprise a number of serious critics, but the latter possesses the humility necessary for thoroughgoing review and evaluation processes.

Despite the propensity of these groups, both collectively and as individual bodies, in setting records for favored artists, the outstanding performance of the period belongs to that of Nora Aunor in Himala, which was honored only by the MMFF. Aunor had been possessed with a search for superior acting vehicles, and threw away a lot of her own money in the process, since in essence she mostly had to run against the preferences of her mass supporters. With Brocka she made perceptible strides in ensuring her lead over the rest of the pack, particularly in Ina Ka ng Anak Mo and Bona. But all that was really required of her was a project that had enough scope to demonstrate her far-reaching prowess, with a minimum of editorial manipulation. In Himala the director and writer seemed to have agreed to a mutual stand-off, thus amplifying the theatrical potential of an expansive locale with protracted takes; stage-trained talents ensured the competent execution of histrionic stylizations, with the climax set on an open-air platform before a hysterical audience. It was a truly great actress’s opportunity of a lifetime, and Nora Aunor seized it and made it not just her role, but her film as well.

Nora Aunor on the set of Ishmael Bernal’s Himala (1982).

Not since Anita Linda in Gerardo de Leon’s Sisa (circa the first Golden Age) had there been such a felicitous exploitation by a performer of ideal filmmaking conditions – and in this instance, Himala has the decided advantage of being major-league and universal. Other consistent stand-outs during the period – and these would be formidable enough as they are – demand to be taken in terms of body of work, not any individual movie: Vic Silayan for Ligaw na Bulaklak, Kisapmata, and Karnal; Gina Alajar for Brutal, Salome, Moral, and Bayan Ko; Nora Aunor for whatever title she appeared in during the eighties, regardless of budget, intention, or box-office result. Record-setters of this period, specifically Phillip Salvador, Nida Blanca, and Vilma Santos, deserve mention if only for the skills and supreme good fortune necessary in attaining their respective feats. Among newcomers, only Jaclyn Jose of Private Show seems to hold forth promise of an order comparable to most of those listed herein.

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Institutional Developments

What factors could have contributed to this concentration of creativity? The only trend that could be cited with confidence is something commonly perceived as a hindrance, its claims to patronage notwithstanding: active governmental intervention. The irony here can be traced from the very beginning (of the second Golden Age, that is) – the militarization of film censorship, and even beyond, if we were to particularize the controls on culture that the declaration of martial law brought about. With the fullest possible flowering of the Golden Age during the turn of the decade, the irony could not but have been heightened further. The government then set in motion the machinery of total institutional support that was to be known presently as the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, eventually housed at the aforementioned Manila Film Center (MFC).

The Manila Film Center, site of some of the best and worst excesses of the Marcos dictatorship.

To be sure, a compounded series of half-hearted inclinations betrayed the ultimate objectives of the ECP. First it was founded not to respond to any industrial necessity, but to legitimize the then-First Lady’s Manila International Film Festival. Then, to appease a First Daughter angered by the kidnapping of her paramour, control of the legitimizing body was turned over to her; this must have been perceived as a shrewd decision, since Imee Marcos-Manotoc, perhaps partly out of her rebellion against her parents, had been soliciting the advice of Marcos oppositionists in culture, most of whom had castigated the first MIFF. The granting to her of ECP was expected therefore to placate both her and too-outspoken Filipino film artists.

Palace politics in this regard kept the Marcos family too busy among themselves to pay attention to the moves of film practitioners. Film producers meanwhile were lured by the prospect of greater returns on investment with the introduction of an international venue (specifically the MIFF’s film market module) on these very shores. Hence films with big budgets and attendant artistic ambitions began to see the light of, er, theatrical exhibitions.

Marcos-Manotoc herself proved to be sincere about her responsibilities, at least during a crucial early phase of her assumption of ECP leadership. The rejection of the MIFF was just a signal to Malacanang of her sincere intentions. By then she had several projects running simultaneously, most of which had a highly favorable impact on film as artistic endeavor. Witness: the production of scriptwriting contest winners, subsidies for worthy full-length film proposals, tax rebates for deserving productions, exhibition of otherwise shunned or banned releases, plus a number of relatively minor benefits – first-rate screening venues, a library of film titles and books, short-film competitions with cash incentives, book and journal publications, archival research and preservation, seminars and workshops, etc.

The arrangement was too good to be true, and eventually succumbed to the regime’s self-destructive tendencies, embodied in this instance in the irrepressible Imelda Marcos. Once Marcos-Manotoc had been distracted by her election to the so-called legislature, the ECP quickly went moribund, with funds hemorrhaged for the alleged promotion of MIFF in foreign countries and with the MFC operated according to a prohibitive maintenance cost. This meant that not only would all charitable functions cease, including film productions and subsidies, but also only sure-fire highly profitable titles, which then as now denoted hard-core sex films, could be exhibited at the MFC’s exclusive venues.

The expected denunciation by the industry of the ECP’s exemption from censorship and taxation, premised on the grounds of unfair competition, was reinforced in part by a bid for survival by the censors body, which with the ECP had reverted to civilian status; a retaliation was also in order, since the ECP under Marcos-Manotoc had initiated moves to outlaw film censorship. All this controversy served to act as check on the choice of films for MFC exhibition, ensuring that the new leadership would resort to artistic quality (the very same excuse invoked for the MIFF), if nothing else, as defense. The outcome, in practical terms, was a handful of local erotica, including the previously mangled Manila by Night, unmatched in art consciousness relative to any other period in local history.

The Marcos government, however, could not stem the tide of the anti-dictatorship movement, especially as fortified by the outrage over the Aquino-Galman assassination, and the post-Imee ECP proved to be a most attractive target. In the end the by-now predictable, and thereby ineffectual, Marcos solution of establishing new institutions or transforming existing ones to conform ostensibly to legal requisites was applied to the ECP. The body was dissolved and another one, the Film Development Foundation of the Philippines (FDFP), set up in its place, without any change in the organization itself, save for its avowal of now being less public in nature; in fact it was intended to enjoy the best of both worlds – semi-private and thus exempt from censorship, semi-public and thus exempt from taxation.

That the FDFP did not differ from ECP except in name would have induced a renewed struggle for the formation of a truly responsive organ for institutional support, but at this point the nation’s attention was diverted by the snap elections that led to the people-power uprising that in turn expelled Marcos, shut down his film institution for good, and drew to a close the second Golden Age of Philippine cinema.

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Intrinsic Reasons

The futility of pinpointing institutional causes, a legacy of materialist orientations which even artists are prone to resort to, becomes evident when we take other national experiences into consideration. In South American countries, whose colonial and religious histories most closely resemble the Philippines’ own, artistic creativity has always been a direct function of political freedom. The same observation applies to contexts closer to home – in neighboring Asian countries. One would expect that the combination of both features – Hispanization and Orientalism – would only strengthen this correlation between the practice of politics and the production of art.

Not only do the Marcos years disprove this extrapolation; the few years since provide enough dramatic contrast to further affirm this deviation from an otherwise logical deduction. Part of the answer may lie in the Machiavellianism of the Marcos regime, its perverse pleasure in playing cat-and-mouse games with its opponents. In the case of industry-based artists, who themselves are no strangers to such dialectics between ideals and realities, this inculcates a disposition toward subtlety and the sublime.

This answer could of course cut both ways. A practitioner may just as well be cowed by the double jeopardy of having to please both an immediate boss and an Orwellian Big Brother, and if the displeasure of either may already mean the loss of career and prestige – in short, everything for the artist – then the displeasure of both would amount to sheer terror, if not paralysis. In actuality, a number of local filmmakers did exhibit indications of the latter syndrome, but these may on the whole be balanced by the others who found favor with either a producer or the regime, in certain cases one against the other.

In the end we could only grant that a major factor for the occurrence of the second Golden Age lies in the superstructure itself – more concretely, in the confluence of film artists who somehow attained a level of individual maturity and collective strength within roughly a common time frame – a force, in effect, capable of transforming what would normally be political and industrial liabilities into aesthetic assets.

This situation couldn’t be too phenomenal; a similar one was realized in Italy during the neorealist era’s inception during the twilight of the fascist regime of Benito Mussolini.[6] Locally, the trend toward the organizing of artists, systematization of training (resulting in one extreme in the introduction of formal film studies at the State University), and the expansion of art consciousness in alternative film and related formats all betoken this contemporaneous ripening of occasional genius, regular expertise, and general resourcefulness in the country’s most popular mass medium. Final and conclusive proof of course lies in the works themselves – over a decade’s worth of major contributions to the art of cinema, on the whole outstanding by any standard, awaiting a comprehensive presentation to a global community that remains all the poorer for not having had the opportunity to strike the proper acquaintance so far.

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[1] Even a foreign “history” volume like Bryan L. Yeatter’s mostly dispensable write-up observes a 1974-85 periodization (129-65) that acknowledges a “Second Golden Era” without any clue about its provenance – a sign that the idea had become paradigmatic. As recent a text as Neferti X.M. Tadiar’s Things Fall Away (in Chapter 8, endnote 36), on the other hand, erroneously ascribes the Second Golden Age idea to Bienvenido Lumbera’s “Brocka, Bernal and Co.: The Arrival of New Filipino Cinema.” Based on a conference paper, Lumbera’s article was drafted in 1998 and made use of the term “New Filipino Cinema” (132, 135), a slight modification of his earlier catchphrase, “New Philippine Cinema,” that appeared in a number of his previous articles. Nowhere in any of Lumbera’s texts does “Second Golden Age” show up.

[2] The original argument for the existence of a First Golden Age was articulated by Jessie B. Garcia, in his article “The Golden Decade of Filipino Movies,” originally published in three issues of Weekly Graphic in April-May 1972 and reprinted in Readings in Philippine Cinema, ed. Rafael Ma. Guerrero (Manila: Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1983), pp. 39-54.

[3] In fact the long-cherished record of a National Artist for Film may have to be revised, or at least qualified. Culture critic Petronilo Bn. Daroy wrote that “Although his name was retained in the credits [of the Ah, Ewan! Basta sa Maynila Pa Rin Ako!] as director, [Ishmael] Bernal, on the first day of the showing of the film, was compelled to disown it” (Bernal et al. 6); the publicity layout, as if in response, bore the name of Luis Enriquez (Eddie Rodriguez’s actual name). No way of confirming what name appeared on the film credits is possible, since the film is considered lost; Nestor U. Torre, however, provided an inadvertent confirmation: “No, I told the film students – and they were ‘shocked’ to hear it – it wasn’t Pagdating sa Dulo [that was Bernal’s debut], as they had been taught in their film history subjects, but a Virgo Productions movie titled (take a deep breath) Ah, Ewan! Basta sa Maynila Pa Rin Ako!

[4] A disclaimer, in the form of the year “1970” superimposed on one of the opening shots of Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag, was deleted in the film’s global release, thereby situating the narrative in martial-law present. The insertion enabled the film to be passed by the censors during its initial release in July 1975, on the argument that the poverty depicted onscreen belonged to the old system (dubbed a “sick society” by Marcos, to contrast with the New Society ushered in by PD 1081). Its subsequent deletion, on the other hand, gave foreign observers the impression that the film had dared to critique the martial-law administration, effectively overwhelming it to the point of sweeping the industry awards for its year of release. In “The Brocka Battles,” Jo-Ann Q. Maglipon provided further proof of how Brocka was able to trick Imelda Marcos (the country’s de facto chief film censor) to allow his films to be exhibited at the Cannes Film Festival: he considered casting Imee Marcos in Insiang and convinced Sean Connery to plead with Mrs. Marcos to allow Jaguar to be exported, as proof that censorship was not practiced in the Philippines (125-27).

[5] During the launching ceremony for the Film Academy of the Philippines, Imee Marcos, then-recently appointed Director-General of the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, announced that the FAP would be replacing the Filipino Academy of Movie Arts and Sciences (inasmuch as the latter was an academy only in name). Joseph Estrada, then still the mayor of San Juan City, had just won two FAMAS awards, each one his fifth as producer and as actor, thereby qualifying him for elevation to its Hall of Fame in two capacities (a historic first-and-only achievement) during the next year’s ceremony. He therefore waged a campaign in favor of maintaining the FAMAS, forcing film authorities to agree to allow the new academy and the old pseudo-academy to continue; ironically, the FAP would also experience its own schism in the new millennium, resulting in two sets of awards claiming to emanate from the same organization.

[6] My last conversation with Imee Marcos took place during her term as Congressperson representing her father’s Ilocos Norte district, in her office located at the University Hotel in Diliman; I was also serving as founding Director of the national university’s film institute and was invited to discuss the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines. She pointed out (rightfully) that the Philippine film industry managed to recover from the trauma of the late-millennium Asian financial crisis coupled with the phaseout of celluloid production, by adopting the strategies introduced by the ECP via its departments. I mentioned that the only previous country famed for introducing a FIAPF A-rated international film festival as well as a crucial support organization was Italy, during the regime of Benito Mussolini. I then ventured to point out the similarity between the name of the defunct ECP and the still-operational Centro sperimentale di cinematografia. She laughed and said it was a deliberate move on her end to give the Marcos film agency such a name, to find out how many people could pick up on the joke. (It was also possible that her then-rebellious streak may have been a factor, but I was aware that she had already reconciled herself to her parents’ legacy, for better or worse, by then.)

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Works Cited

Bernal, Ishmael, Jorge Arago, and Angela Stuart Santiago. Pro Bernal Anti Bio. Manila: ABS-CBN Publishing, 2017.

David, Joel. “The Golden Ages of Philippine Cinema: A Critical Reassessment.” Millennial Traversals: Outliers, Juvenilia, & Quondam Popcult Blabbery (Part I: Traversals within Cinema). Special issue of UNITAS: Semi-Annual Peer-Reviewed International Online Journal of Advanced Research in Literature, Culture, and Society 88.1 (May 2015): 1-15.

Lumbera, Bienvenido. “Brocka, Bernal and Co.: The Arrival of New Filipino Cinema.” Re-Viewing Filipino Cinema. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing, 2011. 124-35.

———. “Problems in Philippine Film History.” Revaluation: Essays on Philippine Literature, Cinema and Popular Culture. Quezon City: Index, 1984. 193-212.

Maglipon, Jo-Ann Q. “The Brocka Battles.” Lino Brocka: The Artist and His Times. Ed. Mario A. Hernando. Manila: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas, 1993. 118-54.

Tadiar, Neferti X.M. Things Fall Away: Philippine Historical Experience and the Makings of Globalization. Post-Contemporary Interventions series. Durham: Duke University Press, 2009.

Torre, Nestor U. “Ishmael Bernal’s Life Was His ‘Performance.’” Philippine Daily Inquirer (September 19, 2011). Posted online.

Vasudev, Aruna. “Cast in Another Mould.” Interview with Ishmael Bernal. Cinemaya 27 (April-June 1995): 16-23.

Yeatter, Bryan L. Cinema of the Philippines: A History and Filmography, 1897-2005. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2007.

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Positive Criticism (A Learning Program)

Schedule: Open
Venue: Pelikulove website

Email: <>
Consultation hours: Via prearranged videochat

Faculty Profile:

PhD & MA (as Fulbright scholar) in Cinema Studies, New York University; B.A. Film (cum laude) & A.B. Journalism (cum laude), University of the Philippines (national university); founding Director, University of the Philippines Film Institute; book publications include Manila by Night (an entry in the acclaimed Queer Film Classics series of Arsenal Pulp Press in Vancouver), The National Pastime, Wages of Cinema (UP Centennial Awardee), Fields of Vision (National Book Awardee), Millennial Traversals (originally a two-issue publication of UNITAS journal), and the forthcoming canon book project (cowritten with Jo-Ann Q. Maglipon) of Summit Media. Articles published in outlets including Southeast Asian Studies, Asian Studies Journal, Asian Journal of Women’s Studies, Humanities Diliman, Journal of Bisexuality, International Journal of Asian Studies, Kritika Kultura, Plaridel, and Manila Review. Member of Modern Language Association of America, Asian Studies Association, Society for Cinema and Media Studies, and Association of Filipino Educators in Korea; Gawad Lingap Sining (Culture-Nurture Awardee) of 2016 Filipino Arts & Cinema International Festival and of the first Glory Awards of the UP College of Mass Communication.

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Lecture Notes:

Film reviews, which evaluate films for the benefit of consumers, are seldom used in film study, since most of the non-Hollywood areas would not be considered or sometimes even rejected by mainstream film commentators. Students of film thus get exposed to a new type of writing, film criticism, which evaluates films not according to whether or not they deserve to be recommended to audiences, but according to how they “play” with film form and tradition, reflect the circumstances of their authors and community, and enact certain programs that have to do with questions of ideologies of society (e.g. class or nation) or of identity (race, gender, sexuality), often with the use of theory. Students who make the adjustment away from judging films as reviewers, in the direction of studying films as social and historical phenomena, will be able to derive a better understanding of the subject, and perhaps even new ways of appreciating new or unusual types of cinema.

Film criticism has been undervalued in both media and academe because of the assumption that film is universally appreciated, and therefore anyone can write about it and deserves to air her or his opinion. While this perspective is valid from a sociological standpoint, it has to be balanced with the reality that much of what passes for film commentary comes from individuals who either do not bother to look into the intrinsic qualities of the medium – e.g., the history, aesthetics, semiology, spectatorship, and future applications of film; or who uphold these values, but only and strictly as these have been articulated and prescribed for their contexts of origin, on the always-mistaken assumption that these could have universal applications.

Since the inception of the medium over a century ago, film theory has developed to the point where it pervades all audiovisual media discourse, including new media. This provides an advantage for young students to immediately recognize “pure” film theory when they study it, but it also makes it more difficult today to identify where film ideas may be headed. Film has become too diffuse an idea, present everywhere and therefore situated nowhere in particular. What can be done instead is the study of an alternate history of film theory, tracing its origin in pre-filmic (so-called technological-deterministic) discourse, through debates on form and realism, to modern and postmodern phases in its development, with the concept of power relations, as developed in feminist and gender theory, constantly foregrounded. In this way the student will be able to see that the proper study and critical application of contemporary film theory will not involve films (or films alone), but the wider spectrum of all available media, and even of society itself. This course will proceed from this critical evaluation of film criticism and provide practical ways in which writing on film can serve as both an effective elaboration of one’s responses as well as a juncture from which intersectional discourses in other fields can be initiated.

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A training course on film criticism proceeding from principles of theoretical expertise and literary expertise.


By the end of the course, the students should be able:

  1. to evaluate a film text in terms of its formal and sociological properties;
  2. to formulate an analysis of the film’s strengths and/or weaknesses in the interest of furthering contemporary discourse; and
  3. to express this critique in a manner that will attain maximum impact in the Philippine context.


Braudy, Leo, and Marshall Cohen, eds. Film Theory and Criticism. 1974. 6th ed. New York: Oxford University Press, 2004.

Corrigan, Timothy. A Short Guide to Writing about Film. 1989. 6th ed. New York: Longman, 2005.

Corrigan, Timothy, and Patricia White. The Film Experience: An Introduction. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2009.

Pramaggiore, Maria, and Tom Wallis. Film: A Critical Introduction. 2005. 2nd ed. London: Laurence King, 2008.

Additional References:

Bordwell, David, and Kristin Thompson. Film Art: An Introduction. 1979. 7th ed. New York: McGraw Hill, 2003.

Giannetti, Louis. Understanding Movies. 10th ed. 1972. Upper Saddle River, NJ: Pearson/Prentice Hall, 2004.

Hill, John, and Pamela Church Gibson, eds. The Oxford Guide to Film Studies. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998.

Phillips, William H. Film: An Introduction. 3rd ed. 1999. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2004.

Prince, Stephen. Movies and Meaning: An Introduction to Film. 1997. 2nd ed. Boston: Allyn & Bacon, 2001.

Stam, Robert. Film Theory: An Introduction. Oxford: Blackwell, 2000.


David, Joel. Amauteurish!.

Guerrero, Rafael Ma. (ed.). Readings in Philippine Cinema. Manila: Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1983.

Internet Movie Database. Website prone to error; use with caution.

Jump Cut: A Review of Contemporary Media.

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Teaching Methods:

Lectures; discussion sessions (by special arrangement); homework preparation; final project: opening chapter of an open-access book project.

Grading System:

  • Attendance and recitation – 40%
  • Homework – 30%
  • Final paper – 30%


  • Session 1: Why Study Film Theory?

Content: Why film studies and production training comprise separate tracks; the difficulties and advantages of praxis; brilliant beginnings vs. career longevities; roads not taken in film professions.
Reading: Joel David, “Auteurs & Amateurs: Toward an Ethics of Film Criticism,” UNITAS 93.1 (May 2020): 17-36.
Screenings: Lav Diaz, Norte: Hangganan ng Kasaysayan (Wacky O Productions, Kayan Productions, Origin8 Media, 2013), c/o Pelikulove.

  • Session 2: How Film was First Regarded

Content: Filmic aspirations and early cinema; Classical Hollywood and its discontents.
Reading: Joel David, “Ethics First,” The National Pastime digital edition (Amauteurish Publishing, 2014).
Screenings: Gregorio Fernandez, Prinsipe Teñoso (LVN Pictures, 1954), available at Citizen Jake on Vimeo; Charlie Chaplin, The Kid (Charles Chaplin Productions, 1921), available at YouTube.

  • Session 3: Post-Classical Shifts in Predigital Cinema

Content: Neorealism, French New Wave, and third cinema.
Readings: Joel David, “Auteur Criticism” and “The Golden Ages of Philippine Cinema,” Book Texts Discourses section (Amauteurish Publishing, 2016).
Screenings: Gregorio Fernandez, Hukom Roldan (LVN Pictures, 1957), available at Citizen Jake on Vimeo; Vittorio de Sica, Miracle in Milan (Produzioni De Sica & Ente Nazionale Industrie Cinematografiche, 1951), available at YouTube.

  • Session 4: New Media and the Democratization of Filmmaking & Criticism

Content: Genre principles, postmodern aesthetics, digitalization, and the internet.
Reading: Joel David, “A Lover’s Polemic,” Book Texts Metacriticism section (Amauteurish Publishing, 2016).
Screenings: Gregorio Fernandez, Malvarosa (LVN Pictures, 1958), available at Citizen Jake on Vimeo; Park Chul-soo, 301, 302 (Park Chul-Soo Films Ltd., 1995), available at YouTube (age confirmation required).

  • Session 5: An Approach to Film Coverage

Content: Understanding audience expectations; the orchestration of detail; creating meaning through the world beyond film; the goal of film analysis: articulating meaning; the importance of developing interpretive claims.
Reading: Joel David, “Muzzled Bombardments,” Plaridel 14.2 (November 2017): 221-31.
Browsings: David Bordwell & Kristine Thompson, David Bordwell’s Website on Cinema; Catherine Grant, Film Studies for Free.
Screenings: Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil, Indigo Child (Pelikulove, 2017); Zbigniew Rybczynski, The Orchestra (Zbig Vision Ltd., Ex Nihilo Films, & NHK, 1990), available at YouTube.

  • Session 6: Traditional Methods, Contemporary Resources

Content: Close reading, book marking, note-taking, diagramming of print, film, and new-media material.
Reading: Joel David, “Writing Film Commentaries,” a Pelikulove exclusive.
Lecture/Discussions on Drafting, Consulting, Revising, Publishing, including: the effective lead; organization of ideas; conformism or contrarianism; tone, voice, perspective; closure or open-endedness.
Submission of final project proposals with sample review.

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  1. The class will be conducted bilingually, in English and Tagalog, with internet research of English-language websites. Recitations, written material, and consultations should similarly be conducted bilingually.
  2. Activities outside the classroom will be assigned occasionally. It is understood that students agree that they are solely and fully responsible for themselves in fulfilling this requirement.
  3. Exercises will be written on MS Word files, letter-size pages with 1-inch margins, with name on the first line, flush left, and the date of the exercise right below. No title required. Texts should be double-spaced. For the final project, the instructor will provide a form during the penultimate (5th) week, to be turned in during the final week.

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Comprehensive Pinas Film Biblio: Chronologized

Important: To see these entries in reverse-chronological order, click here; to see them grouped by category, click here; the entries in alphabetical order, listed by author, can be found here; for an alphabetical listing by title, please click here. To return to the landing page, click here. Any notes that follow each entry’s name of publisher are annotations made by the author, which fall under copyright. Out-of-print books and chapters that I wrote or edited may be found in this blog’s Books section.

For years in chronological order beyond the 1910s: 1929, 1938, 1943, 1949, 1952, 1958, 1967, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1976, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1980, 1981, 1982, 1983, 1984, 1985, 1986, 1987, 1988, 1989, 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020.


A Campaign for Public Decency and Civic Morality. Manila: Santo Tomas.


Internal Revenue, Philippines Bureau of. Cinematographic Film Regulations: Administrative Order No. 50. Manila: Bureau of Internal Revenue.


Way, Eugene Irving. Motion Pictures in Japan, Philippine Islands, Netherland East Indies, Siam, British Malaya, and French Indo-China. Trade Information Bulletin No. 634, series of the United States Bureau of Foreign and Domestic Commerce. Washington, DC: Government Publishing Office.


Virrey, Teodoro. Ang Pelikulang Tagalog… [The Tagalog Movie…]. Publications of the Institute of National Language, vol. 4, no. 11. Manila: Bureau of Printing.


Yutaka Abe, and Hitō Hakengun. Dawn of Freedom: A Toho Super Production. [Manila: Eiga Haikyūsha.] Commemorative volume for Dawn of Freedom, dirs. Abe Yutaka and Gerardo de Leon (Eiga Haikyūsha & Toho, 1944).


Silver Book: A Movie Directory of the Philippines. [City & publisher unkn.].


The Philippine Screen Golden Book Album ng mga Artista [Album of Actors]: Favorite Movie Stars with Autographed Fotos. [Manila: Philippine Screen Publishing Co.]

Salumbides, Vicente. Motion Pictures in the Philippines. Manila: V.S.


United States Business and Defense Services Administration’s Scientific, Motion Picture, and Photographic Products Division. Motion Pictures Abroad: Philippines. Washington, DC: US Government Printing Office.


Feliciano, Gloria D., and Crispulo J. Icban Jr., eds. Philippine Mass Media in Perspective. Quezon City: Capitol. T.D. Agcaoili, “Movies.”


Martinez, Jose Reyes, ed. Nora Aunor: Tagumpay sa Bawat Awit [Triumph in Every Song]. Sitsiritsit Special No. 1. Quezon City: Asia-Pacific Publications. “Book-length fully illustrated biography” featuring various topics plus “her songs, with guitar chords” (cover description).


Quinton, Rustum G. Ang Tunay na Kasaysayan ni Nora Aunor, Superstar [The True History of Nora Aunor, Superstar]. Manila: RMD&A Publishing.

Robledo, Aniceto. Artist Becomes Delegate of God (Artistang Naging Alagad ng Diyos): Completely Authorized and Illustrated Biography of Msgr. Aniceto Robledo. Quezon City: Fidimica Enterprises. Religious testimonial of film actor Aniceto Robledo, known for Ang Lumang Simbahan [The Old Church], dir. Jose Nepomuceno (Malayan Movies, 1928).


Silverio, Julio F. Sulyap sa Buhay ng mga Artistang Pilipino [Glimpse into the Life of Philippine Movie Actors]. Manila: National Book Store.

Vego, Herbert L. Getting to Know Nora. Manila: Herbert L. Vego. On film actor Nora Aunor, published “with permission from Philippines Daily Express” (cover text).


De Vega, Guillermo. Film and Freedom: Movie Censorship in the Philippines. Manila: De Vega. Includes reviews of Tubog sa Ginto [Dipped in Gold], dir. Lino Brocka (Lea Productions, 1970); and Kung Bakit Dugo ang Kulay ng Gabi [Why Blood Is the Color of Night], dir. Celso Ad. Castillo (AA Productions, 1973).

McCarthy, Todd, and Charles Flynn. Kings of the B’s: Working within the Hollywood System. New York: E.P. Dutton. “Eddie Romero.”


Del Rosario, Simeon G. The Subversive Impact: Sakada [Plantation Laborer] of Behn Cervantes (A Critique). Quezon City: Simeon G. del Rosario. A study of Sakada, dir. Behn Cervantes (Sagisag Films, 1976).

Makabenta, Yen, ed. Book of the Philippines. Manila: Research and Analysis Center for Communications and Aardvark Associates. Includes biographies for Nora Aunor, Lamberto V. Avellana, et al.

Mijares, Primitivo. The Conjugal Dictatorship of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos. San Francisco: Union Square Publications. “The Loves of Marcos,” on Ferdinand Marcos’s predilection for movie stars, having married a beauty queen and aspiring film performer. Revised & annotated in 2017.

United States Information Agency Office of Research. Audience Reaction to IMV Films. Series E-7-76. [Washington, DC]: USIA Office of Research. Audience tests in the Philippines, Colombia, and Lebanon.


Alatas, Syed Hussein. The Myth of the Lazy Native: A Study of the Image of the Malays, Filipinos and Javanese from the 16th to the 20th Century and Its Function in the Ideology of Colonial Capitalism. London: Frank Cass.

Constantino, Renato. Insight & Foresight. Quezon City: Foundation for Nationalist Studies. “Entertainment as Tranquilizer” contains a reference to the author’s Manila Chronicle article “Nora Nora” (February 27, 1971), with a footnote qualifying its criticism of Nora Aunor’s lack of “progressive content” by acknowledging her 1976 productions, Mario O’Hara’s Tatlong Taóng Walang Diyos [Three Godless Years] (NV Productions) and Lupita Aquino-Kashiwahara’s Minsa’y Isang Gamu-gamo [Once a Moth] (Premiere Productions); per Nestor de Guzman’s research.

Joaquin, Nick [as Quijano de Manila]. Amalia Fuentes and Other Etchings. [Manila]: National Book Store.

——— [as Quijano de Manila]. Gloria Diaz and Other Delineations. [Manila]: National Book Store.

——— [as Quijano de Manila]. Joseph Estrada and Other Sketches. [Manila]: National Book Store.

——— [as Quijano de Manila]. Nora Aunor and Other Profiles. [Manila]: National Book Store.

——— [as Quijano de Manila]. Ronnie Poe and Other Silhouettes. [Manila]: National Book Store. “Ronnie Poe” is the nickname of actor, director, and producer Fernando Poe Jr.

Mercado, Monina A., ed. Doña Sisang and Filipino Movies. [Quezon City]: Vera-Reyes. Articles on Narcisa Buencamino de Leon (founder of LVN Pictures), her professional principles, and the films she produced; includes a filmography of LVN productions from 1939 to 1961.


Fernandez, Ricardo V., ed. Film Directory of the Philippines. [Manila: Philippine Motion Pictures Producers Association?].

Hosillos, Lucila V. Movies in a Third World Country. Third World Studies Dependency series no. 15. [Quezon City]: Third World Studies Program [of the] University of the Philippines College of Arts and Sciences.

Infante, J. Eddie. All the Stars in the Sky: An Autobiography. Manila: Front Page Newsmakers. On the actor and director Eddie Infante, whose heyday was during the First Golden Age of the 1950s.

Lent, John A, ed. Broadcasting in Asia and the Pacific: A Continental Survey of Radio and Television. International and Comparative Broadcasting series. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.


Momblanco, Maria Carmencita A. “Philippine Motion Pictures, 1908-1958: A Checklist of the First Fifty Years.” Master’s thesis, 2 vols. University of the Philippines.


Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr. Writing for Film. [Manila]: Communication Foundation for Asia.

Film Blockbusters from the Philippines. [Manila]: Manila International Film Festival. “Dry run” for the regular MIFF, to be held starting the next year.

Lee, Ricky [as Ricardo Lee]. Brutal/Salome. [Quezon City]: Cine Gang. Back-to-back screenplays of Brutal, dir. Marilou Diaz-Abaya (Bancom Audiovision, 1980); and Salome, dir. Laurice Guillen (Bancom Audiovision, 1981). The script of Salome was reprinted and translated in a foreign edition in 1993.

Velarde, Emmie G. All-Star Cast. Quezon City: Cine Gang.


The First Experimental Cinema of the Philippines Annual Short Film Festival: November 16-21, 1982, Manila Film Center, [Cultural Center of the Philippines] Complex. Manila: ECP.

Garcia, Jessie B. Stars in the Raw. Bacolod City: [publisher unkn.].

Kabristante, George Vail. Gabby [Concepcion]. Quezon City: Jingle Clan Publications. On the then-emerging teen star.

Lee, Ricky [as Ricardo Lee]. Moral. [Quezon City]: Seven-Star Productions. Screenplay of Moral, dir. Marilou Diaz-Abaya (Seven Stars Productions, 1982).

Tobias, Mel. Memoirs of an Asian Moviegoer. Hong Kong: South China Morning Post.


ASEAN Country Reports on Film. Manila: Office of Media Affairs [of the] National Media Production Center. “A project of the Working Group on Film of the [Association of Southeast Asian Nations] Committee on Culture and Information” (self-description); includes “The Film Industry in the Philippines.”

Film Academy of the Philippines. Filmography of Filipino Films, 1982. [Manila]: Film Academy of the Philippines. Launch publication for what has been subsequently called the Luna Awards, first held in 1984.

Focus on Filipino Films: A Sampling, 1951-1982. Manila: Manila International Film Festival. Brochure for a special module selected by the Filipino Film Screening Committee and presented during the second MIFF edition, accompanied by freshly struck positive prints subtitled in English & French.

Guerrero, Rafael Ma., ed. Readings in Philippine Cinema. Manila: Experimental Cinema of the Philippines.

Guevara-Fernandez, Pacita, ed. Keeping the Flame Alive: Essays in the Humanities. Diamond Jubilee Publication. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Behn Cervantes’s “Ganyan Lang Talaga Yan [That’s Just How It Is]” describes the Philippine situation as “a large market that can be redirected in its tastes and attitudes so that they [sic] can dictate what types of movies should be made.”

Jimenez, Baby K. Ang True Story ni Guy, Ikalawang Aklat [The True Story of Guy, Volume Two]. Quezon City: Mass Media Promotions. On film actor Nora Aunor; in 2 vols.

———. Ang True Story ni Guy, Unang Aklat [The True Story of Guy, Volume One]. Quezon City: Mass Media Promotions. On film actor Nora Aunor; in 2 vols.

Quirino, Joe. Don Jose [Nepomuceno] and the Early Philippine Cinema. History of the Philippine Cinema series no. 1. Quezon City: Phoenix Publishing House. First in the author’s projected 3-volume history series; no other volumes followed.

Rotea, Hermie. Marcos’ Lovey Dovie. Los Angeles: Liberty Publishing. On the affair between then-President Ferdinand E. Marcos and Dovie Beams, leading lady of Maharlika, dir. Jerr Hopper (Roadshow Films International & Solar Films, 1970).

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. The Urian Anthology 1970-1979. Quezon City: Manuel L. Morato. “Selected essays on tradition and innovation in the Filipino cinema of the 1970s by the Manunuri ng Pelikulang Pilipino: with about 550 photos and illustrations and a filmography of Philippine movies, 1970-1979” (title page descriptor).


Constantino, Renato. Synthetic Culture and Development. Quezon City: Foundation for Nationalist Studies. Rare direct mention of cinema in the nationalist author’s texts (from Patrick D. Flores’s findings).

Cruz, Isagani R. Movie Times. Manila: National Book Store.

Garcia, Jessie B. Claudia Zobel: An Untold Story. Iloilo City: [publisher unkn.]. On the short life of the sex-film star.

———. Queen Vi: An Intimate Biography. Bacolod City: Jessie B. Garcia. On film star Vilma Santos; allegedly unauthorized and pulled from distribution after initial sales.

Lee, Ricky [as Ricardo Lee]. Bukas … May Pangarap [Tomorrow … There’ll Be a Dream]. [Quezon City: Markenprint]. Screenplay of Bukas … May Pangarap, dir. Gil Portes (Tri Films, 1984).

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Revaluation: Essays on Philippine Literature, Cinema and Popular Culture. [Quezon City]: Index. Reprinted and expanded as Revaluation 1997.


David, Rina, and Pennie Azarcon de la Cruz. Towards Our Own Image: An Alternative Philippine Report on Women and Media. PWRC Pamphlet Series no. 1. [Manila]: Philippine Women’s Research Collective. Continued in Wilhelmina S. Orozco’s Towards Our Own Image.

Deocampo, Nick. Short Film: Emergence of a New Philippine Cinema. Ed. Alfred A. Yuson. Manila: Communication Foundation for Asia. Translated to Spanish as El Cortometraje (1986).

Noriega, Bienvenido M. Jr. Soltero [Bachelor]. Trans. Rolando S. Tinio. Quezon City: New Day Publishers. Screenplay of Soltero, dir. Pio de Castro III (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1984).

Orozco, Wilhelmina S. Towards Our Own Image: An Alternative Philippine Report on Women and Media. PWRC Pamphlet Series no. 2. [Manila]: Philippine Women’s Research Collective. Continued from Rina David and Pennie Azarcon de la Cruz’s Towards Our Own Image.

Thompson, Kristin. Exporting Entertainment: America in the World Film Market, 1907-34. London: British Film Institute Publishing. Describes how the Philippines, as the sole US colony, became the regional center for distribution of Hollywood film prints – which were flawed or easily damaged, since the Orient was regarded as a “junk” market: “90% of the prints from American exchanges were worn almost beyond being showable, with splices, torn sprockets, ends and titles missing” (per an exhibitor’s account).


Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr., and Jose Mari Magpayo, eds. Philippine Mass Media: A Book of Readings. Manila: Communication Foundation for Asia. Mario A. Hernando, “Against All Odds: The Story of the Filipino Film Industry (1978-1982)”; Bienvenido Lumbera, “Problems in Philippine Film History”; Eduardo Sazon, “Film Distribution and Exhibition.”

Deocampo, Nick. El Cortometraje: Surgimiento de un nuevo cine filipino. Trans. Mark Garner & Matxalen Goiria. Bilbao: Certámen Internacional del Cine Documental y Cortometraje. Spanish translation of Short Film (1985).

Downing, John, ed. Film & Politics in the Third World. New York: Autonomedia. Luis Francia, “Philippine Cinema: The Struggle against Repression.”

Screenwriters Guild of the Philippines. Artista sa Pelikula ’85 / Actors’ Yearbook ’85. [Manila]: Fil-Asia Graphics.


Andres, Tomas D. How to Enjoy a Film Intelligently for Value Education. [Manila]: Our Lady of Manaoag Publishers.

Armes, Roy. Third World Film Making and the West. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Garcellano, Edel E. First Person, Plural: Essays. Quezon City: Edel E. Garcellano.

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Abot-Tanaw: Sulyap at Suri sa Nagbabagong Kultura at Lipunan [Purview: Glancing and Critiquing a Changing Culture and Society]. Quezon City: Linangan ng Kamalayang Makabansa.


Guillermo, Alice. Images of Change: Essays and Reviews. Quezon City: Kalikasan Press.

Lee, Ricky [as Ricardo Lee]. Si Tatang at mga Himala ng Ating Panahon: Koleksyon ng mga Akda [Old Man and the Miracles of Our Time: Collection of Writings]. Quezon City: Bagong Likha Publications. Screenplay of Himala, dir. Ishmael Bernal (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1982), reviews of other films, and interview articles; reprinted in 2009.


Export Trade Promotion, Philippines Bureau of. A Profile on Motion Pictures. Product Profile series. [Manila]: Product Research and Strategy Group, Bureau of Export Trade Promotion, Department of Trade & Industry.

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Pelikula: An Essay on the Philippine Film. [Manila]: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas. Later expanded in the Tuklas Sining series by Lumbera, Agustin Sotto, and Nestor U. Torre.

Reyes, Emmanuel A. Notes on Philippine Cinema. Manila: De La Salle University Press. Includes an interview conducted for the documentary Vic Silayan: An Actor Remembers, dir. Manny Reyes (Manny Reyes, 1984).

Salazar, Zeus A., Agustin Sotto, and Prospero Reyes Covar. Unang Pagtingin sa Pelikulang Bakbakan: Tatlong Sanaysay [A First Glance at the Action Film: Three Essays]. Manila: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas.


AMAUAN Filipino American Multi-Arts Center and Anthology Film Archives. Films by Lino Brocka: A Retrospective, November 14 [to] December 2, 1990, American Film Archives. AMAUAN Notebook series 7.1. New York: AMAUAN Filipino American Multi-Arts Center.

Cultural Center of the Philippines Library. Union Catalog on Philippine Culture: Film. CCP Library Research Guide Series no. 4. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines Library.

David, Joel. The National Pastime: Contemporary Philippine Cinema. Book edition. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Revised & updated for a digital edition in 2014.

Lent, John A. The Asian Film Industry. Texas Film Studies Series. Austin: University of Texas Press. “Philippines” (case study).


Goodman, Grant K., ed. Japanese Cultural Policies in Southeast Asia During World War II. New York: MacMillan. Motoe Terami-Wada, “The Japanese Propaganda Corps in the Philippines: Laying the Foundation.”

Infante, J. Eddie. Inside Philippine Movies, 1970-1990: Essays for Students of Philippine Cinema. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.

Ishizaka Kenji, ed. Philippine Film Festival: Fiesta of the Filmmakers. Introducing Southeast Asian Cinema series no. 3. Tokyo: Masaru Inoue.

Reyes, Soledad S., ed. Reading Popular Culture. Quezon City: Office of Research and Publications [of the] Ateneo de Manila University. Papers presented at the First National Conference on Popular Culture at the Ateneo de Manila University on November 17-19, 1988; includes Ruth Elynia Mabanglo, “Mula sa Altar nina Huli at Maria Clara: Imahen ng Babae sa Ilang Dramang Pilipino [From the Altar of (José Rizal characters) Huli and Maria Clara: Images of Women in Selected Philippine Dramas]”; and Soledad S. Reyes, “Women on Television.”

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. Tuklas Sining [Art Discovery]: Essays on the Philippine Arts. Manila: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas.


Barte, Gina V., ed. Panahon ng Hapon: Sining sa Digmaan, Digmaan sa Sining [The Japanese Period: Art in War, War in Art]. Studies on Philippine Art and Society, 1942-1945 series. Manila: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas. Exhibition & conference publication, including Agustin Sotto, “War and the Aftermath in Philipine Cinema”; and Motoe Terami-Wada, “Strategy in Culture: Cultural Policy and Propaganda in the Philippines, 1942-1945.”

Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr. Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag [Manila: In the Claws of Neon], ’Merika [with Gil Jose Quito], at Alyas Raha Matanda [with Herky del Mundo]: Tatlong Dulang Pampelikula [Three Screenplays]. Manila: De La Salle University Press. Screenplays of Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag, dir. Lino Brocka (Cinema Artists, 1975); and ’Merika, dir. Gil Portes (Adrian Films, 1984).

Directory of Filipino Women in Radio, TV & Film Media. [Manila]: National Commission on the Role of Filipino Women, National Printing Office, and Philippine Information Agency.

Jameson, Fredric. The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System. Perspectives series. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. “Art Naïf and the Admixture of Worlds” is an appreciation of Kidlat Tahimik’s Mababangong Bangungot [Perfumed Nightmare] (Zoetrope Studios, 1977).

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Pelikula: An Essay on the Philippine Film, 1961-1992. Tuklas Sining series. [Manila]: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas. Continuation of Agustin Sotto’s Pelikula: An Essay on the Philippine Film, 1897-1960 and supplemented by Nestor U. Torre’s Pelikula: An Essay on Philippine Film, Touchstones of Excellence.

Reyes, Soledad S., ed. Kritisismo: Mga Teorya at Antolohiya para sa Epektibong Pagtuturo ng Panitikan [Criticism: Theories and an Anthology for the Effective Teaching of Literature]. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Isagani R. Cruz, “Si Lam-ang, si Fernando Poe Jr., at si Aquino: Ilang Kuro-Kuro tungkol sa Epikong Filipino [(Mythological figure) Lam-ang, (film auteur) Fernando Poe Jr., and (Benigno S.) Aquino (Jr.): A Few Ideas on the Philippine Epic].”

Sotto, Agustin. Pelikula: An Essay on the Philippine Film, 1897-1960. Tuklas Sining series. [Manila]: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas. Continued in Bienvenido Lumbera’s Pelikula: An Essay on the Philippine Film, 1961-1992 and supplemented by Nestor U. Torre’s Pelikula: An Essay on Philippine Film, Touchstones of Excellence.


Fajardo, Deo J. Robin Padilla: Bad Boy ng Showbiz [Bad Boy of Showbiz]. [Manila]: Concept Society. On the controversial lifestyle of a member of the respected Padilla clan.

Gever, Martha, John Greyson, and Pratibha Parmar, eds. Queer Looks: Perspectives on Lesbian and Gay Film and Video. New York: Routledge. Nick Deocampo, “Homosexuality as Dissent / Cinema as Subversion: Articulating Gay Consciousness in the Philippines.”

Hernando, Mario A., ed. Lino Brocka: The Artist and His Times. Manila: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas.

Lee, Ricky [as Ricardo Lee]. Salome: A Filipino Filmscript by Ricardo Lee. Trans. Rofel G. Brion. Madison: Center for Southeast Asian Studies, University of Wisconsin, Madison. Screenplay of Salome, dir. Laurice Guillen (Bancom Audiovision, 1981). Originally published untranslated in 1981.

Maglipon, Jo-Ann Q. Primed: Selected Stories 1972-1992. Reportage on an Archipelago series. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. “MIFFed [Manila International Film Festival]”; “Free the Artist!”; “The Republic of the Philippines vs. Lino Brocka, et al.”; “Canuplin: The Little Tramp Time Left Behind”; “Erap [Joseph Estrada]”; “Phantoms of the Cinema”; “Starlight, Starbright”; “Mega Mother Lily [Monteverde]: Superstar for All Seasons.”


Aitken, Stuart C., and Leo E. Zonn, eds. Place, Power, Situation and Spectacle: A Geography of Film. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Gerald M. Macdonald’s “A Mapping of Cinematic Places: Icons, Ideology, and the Power of (Mis)Representation” provides an assessment of Kidlat Tahimik’s Mababangong Bangungot [Perfumed Nightmare] (Zoetrope Studios, 1977).

Constantino, Ronald K., and Ricardo F. Lo, eds. The Golden Years: Memorable Tagalog Movie Ads 1946-1956 (From the Collection of Danny Dolor). Manila: Danny Dolor.

Diamond Anniversary of Philippine Cinema. Brochure for the 43rd awards ceremony of the Filipino Academy of Movie Arts and Sciences. Manila: [Movie Workers Welfare Fund]. Includes a filmography of Philippine productions from the beginning to 1993 prepared by Lynn Pareja; significant for being the first published listing of Filipino movies made during the 1960s.

Pelikula at Lipunan [Film and Society]: Festival of Filipino Film Classics and Short Films. [Quezon City]: National Commission for Culture and the Arts Cinema Committee, Film Academy of the Philippines, and Movie Workers Welfare Fund.

Pertierra, Raul, and Eduardo F. Ugarte, eds. Cultures and Texts: Representations of Philippine Society. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Sklar, Robert. Movie-Made America: A Cultural History of American Movies. Revised and updated. New York: Vintage Books. First published as Movie-Made America: A Social History of the American Movie (New York: Random House, 1975); Sklar observed that “because whenever wars were in progress the US government would pressure Hollywood to assist in the war effort, ‘echoes and shadows’ of the Viet Nam conflict could only be provided” via the Blood-Island film cycle initiated by Gerardo de Leon’s Terror Is a Man, a.k.a. Creature from Blood Island (Lynn-Romero Productions & Premiere Productions, 1959), a takeoff from H.G. Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896) (from Joel David, “Phantom Limbs in the Body Politic,” Plaridel, vol. 11, no. 1, February 2014).

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. Philippine Film. Vol. 8 (of 10 vols.) of CCP [Cultural Center of the Philippines] Encyclopedia of Philippine Art. 1st edition. Manila: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas. 2nd edition’s equivalent volume is titled Film.

Torre, Nestor U. Pelikula: An Essay on Philippine Film, Touchstones of Excellence. Tuklas Sining series. [Manila]: Sentrong Pangkultura ng Pilipinas. Supplementary to Agustin Sotto’s and Bienvenido Lumbera’s 1992 Pelikula accounts.


Coppola, Eleanor. Notes: On the Making of Apocalypse Now. 1979 (1st printing). London: Faber and Faber. Regarding Apocalypse Now, dir. Francis Ford Coppola (American Zoetrope, 1979).

David, Joel. Fields of Vision: Critical Applications in Recent Philippine Cinema. Book edition. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Revised & updated for a digital edition in 2014.

Garcia, Fanny A., and Armando Lao, eds. Pitong Teleplay [Seven Teleplays]. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. TV scripts by Ricky Lee, Armando Lao, Lualhati Bautista, Jose F. Bartolome, Rosalie Matilac, Dado C. Lumibao, and Fanny A. Garcia.

Garcia, Jessie B. Showbiz Uncensored. [Iloilo City]: Moviola Publishing House.

Ishizaka Kenji, ed. Symposium on Gerardo de Leon. Tokyo: Japan Foundation & [Association of Southeast Asian Nations] Culture Center.

Lo, Ricardo F. Star Studded. Makati City: Virtusio Books.

Ocampo, Ambeth. Bonifacio’s Bolo. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Includes “The Nora Aunor Mystique.”

Reyes, Soledad S. Pagbasa ng Panitikan at Kulturang Popular: Piling Sanaysay, 1976-1996 [Reading Literature and Popular Culture: Selected Essays, 1976-1996]. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.

Sotto, Agustin, and Marilou Diaz-Abaya. Political and Social Issues in Philippine Film: Two Perspectives. Political and Social Change Working Paper Series, No. 12. Canberra: Department of Political and Social Change, Division of Politics and International Relations, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, Australian National University.

Vergara, Benito M. Displaying Filipinos: Photography and Colonialism in Early 20th Century Philippines. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.


Flores, Patrick D. Sites of Review: Critical Practice in Media. San Pablo City: Oraciones.

Kenny, James, and Isabel Enriquez Kenny. Making Documentaries & News Features in the Philippines. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

Kintanar, Thelma B., “and Associates.” The University of the Philippines Cultural Dictionary for Filipinos. Quezon City & Pasig City: University of the Philippines Press & Anvil Publishing, 1996. “Communication and Mass Media.”

Reyes, Emmanuel A. Malikhaing Pelikula: Mga Sanaysay Tungkol sa Pelikulang Pilipino [Creative Film: Essays on Philippine Cinema]. Makati: Media Plus. Includes the screenplays of Dreaming Filipinos (Manny Reyes Productions, 1991) and Suwapings [The Laughing Barrio] (Safari Films, 1994), both directed by the author [as Manny Reyes].

Trzcinski, Kevin, and Owen Hughes. Philippines Media Yearbook. Hong Kong: Cornerstone Associates Ltd.


Deocampo, Nick. Beyond the Mainstream: The Films of Nick Deocampo. Ed. Lolita R. Lacuesta. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Production notes and essays on short filmmaking, plus the screenplays of the following short films by the author: “Oliver” (Deocampo, 1983); “Children of the Regime” (Deocampo, 1985); “Revolutions Happen Like Refrains in a Song” (Deocampo, 1987); “Ynang-Bayan [Mother-Country]: To Be a Woman Is to Live in a Time of War” (Deocampo, 1991); “Memories of Old Manila” ([Movie Workers Welfare Fund] Film Institute, 1993); “Isaak” (Metro Manila Film Festival Executive Committee, 1994); and “Sex Warriors and the Samurai” (Deocampo, 1995).

Flores, Patrick D., and Cecilia Sta. Maria de la Paz. Sining at Lipunan [Art and Society]. Aklat Sanyata series. Quezon City: Sentro ng Wikang Filipino – Diliman. 2nd edition (2014) is listed as de la Paz & Flores.

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Revaluation 1997: Essays on Philippine Literature, Cinema and Popular Culture. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. Reprint of 1984 edition with additional 22 articles and interview.

Movie and Television Review and Classification Board. Implementing Rules and Regulations Pursuant to Section 3(a) of Presidential Decree No. 1986: The Movie and Television Review and Classification Board (MTRCB). Quezon City: Office of the President, Republic of the Philippines.


David, Joel. Wages of Cinema: Film in Philippine Perspective. Book edition. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Revised & updated for a digital edition in 2014.

De la Cruz, Enrique B., and Pearlie Rose S. Baluyut, eds. Confrontations, Crossings, and Convergence: Photographs of the Philippines and the United States, 1898-1998. Los Angeles: Asian American Studies Center Press. A “companion to the photographic display [titled] Confrontations, Crossings and Convergence, on exhibit at UCLA’s Fowler Museum from August 19, 1998 to January 3, 1999[, as] curated by Enrique B. de la Cruz and Pearlie Rose Baluyut of UCLA’s Asian American Studies Center and art history department respectively, and Rico Reyes, an innovative, San Francisco-based artist” (from Augusto Fauni Espiritu’s review in the Journal of Asian American Studies).

Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr. Native Resistance: Philippine Cinema and Colonialism, 1898-1941. Manila: De La Salle University Press.

Garcellano, Edel E. Interventions. Manila: Polytechnic University of the Philippines Press.

Intellectual Property Code of the Philippines and Related Laws: With Movie and Television Review and Classification Board (PD 1986), Videogram Regulatory Board (PD 1987), Children’s Television Act of 1997 and Others. Manila: Central Book Supply.

Kasaysayan at Pelikula [History and Film]: 100 Years of Cinema in the Philippines. Manila: National Centennial Commission, Presidential Management Staff, and Movie and Television Review and Classification Board.

Lee, Ricky. Trip to Quiapo: Scriptwriting Manual. Quezon City: Bagong Likha Publishing.

Lim, Jonah Añonuevo. Creative Imaging: An Introduction to Film. [Dumaguete City]: Jonah Lim.

Murray, Raymond. Images in the Dark: An Encyclopedia of Gay and Lesbian Film and Video (Revised and Updated). London: Titan Books. Originally published 1994; includes an entry on Macho Dancer, dir. Lino Brocka (Award Films, Special People Productions, & Viva Films, 1988).

The National Artists of the Philippines. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines & Anvil Publishing, 1998. 1972-97 coverage, followed by The National Artists of the Philippines 1999-2003 (2003). Lena S. Pareja, “Lamberto V. Avellana (Theater/Film, 1976): An Innate Love for Truth and Beauty”; Amadis Ma. Guerrero, “Gerardo de Leon (Film, 1982): Views from the Master Filmmaker”; Ramil Digal Gulle, “Rolando S. Tinio (Theater/Literature, 1997): The Song of Rolando: Creative Genius.” The entry “Lino Brocka (Film/Broadcast Arts, 1997): Human Being, Artist, Filipino” contains the following tagline credits: the Ramon Magsaysay Awards Foundation program brochure (September 1985), Mario A. Hernando, and Marilou Diaz-Abaya.

Patajo-Legasto, Priscelina, ed. Filipiniana Reader: A Companion Anthology of Filipiniana Online. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Open University. Clodualdo del Mundo Jr., “Komiks: An Industry, a Potent Medium, Our National ‘Book,’ and Pablum of Art Appreciation” & “Philippine Television: A History of Politics and Commerce”; Patrick D. Flores, “Philippine Cinema and Society”; Bienvenido Lumbera, “Brocka, Bernal & Co.: The Arrival of New Filipino Cinema” & “Problems in Philippine Film History”; Soledad S. Reyes, “The Philippine Komiks”; Nicanor G. Tiongson, “Becoming Filipino: 1565-1898”; Rolando B. Tolentino, “‘Inangbayan’ (Mother-Nation) in Lino Brocka’s Bayan Ko: Kapit sa Patalim (My Country: Clutching a Knife [Malaya Films & Stephan Films], 1985) and Orapronobis (Fight for Us [Bernadette Associates International], 1989).”

Tobias, Mel. One Hundred Acclaimed Tagalog Movies: Sineng Mundo [Film World], Best of Philippine Cinema. Vancouver: Peanut Butter Publishing.


Buensalido, Joy, and Abe Florendo. 100 Women of the Philippines: Celebrating Filipino Womanhood in the New Millennium. Makati City: Buensalido & Associates. Including Ophelia Alcantara-Dimalanta, Zeneida Amador, Nora Aunor, Marilou Diaz-Abaya, Laurice Guillen, Lea Salonga, Vilma Santos, Sharon Cuneta, Regine Velasquez, Monique Wilson, et al.

Coronel, Sheila S., ed. From Loren to Marimar: The Philippine Media in the 1990s. Quezon City: Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism.

Cultural Center of the Philippines in Cooperation with the Centennial Commission. The CCP Centennial Honors for the Arts. Manila: CCP. Includes entries for Nora Aunor, Daisy H. Avellana, Ishmael Bernal, Salvador F. Bernal, Amelia L. Bonifacio, Ryan Cayabyab, Benjamin H. Cervantes, Manuel Conde, Ernani J. Cuenco, Mike de Leon, Narcisa B. de Leon, et al.

Diaz-Abaya, Marilou. José Rizal. Quezon City: University of the Philippines College of Mass Communication. Commemorative volume for José Rizal, dir. Marilou Diaz-Abaya (GMA Films, 1998).

Lanot, Marra PL. Deja Vu & Other Essays. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

———. The Trouble with Nick [Joaquin] & Other Profiles. Philippine Writers series. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Includes “That Gal Named Guy” (nickname of film actor Nora Aunor).

Lee, Ricky [as Ricardo Lee], Jun Lana, & Peter Ong. Ang Screenplay ng José Rizal [The Screenplay of José Rizal]. Makati City : Butz Jimenez and Jimmy Duavit for GMA Network. Screenplay of José Rizal, dir. Marilou Diaz-Abaya (GMA Films, 1998).

Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum. Empire and Memory: Repercussions and Evocations of the 1899 Philippine-American War. [New York: Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum.]

Sulong Pilipina! Sulong Pilipinas! [Forward Filipina! Forward Philippines!] A Compilation of Filipino Women Centennial Awardees. Manila: Women Sector [of the] National Centennial Commission. Includes Liwayway A. Arceo, Fides S. Asensio, Nora Aunor, Daisy H. Avellana, Susana C. de Guzman, Narcisa B. de Leon, et al.


Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr., and Mike de Leon. Rizal [and] Bayaning 3rd World [3rd World Hero]: Dalawang Dulang Pampelikula [Two Screenplays]. Manila: De La Salle University Press. Screenplays of Rizal, dir. Mike de Leon (unfinished); and Bayaning 3rd World, dir. Mike de Leon (Cinema Artists, 2000).

Grossman, Andrew, ed. Queer Asian Cinema: Shadows in the Shade. New York: Harrington Park Press. Co-published simultaneously as Journal of Homosexuality’s vol. 39, nos. 3-4 issues; Rolando B. Tolentino, “Transvestites and Transgressions: Panggagaya [Mimicry] in Philippine Gay Cinema.”

Hau, Caroline S. Necessary Fictions: Philippine Literature and the Nation, 1946-1980. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. “Alien Nation” discusses the characters of Quiroga in José Rizal’s Noli Me Tángere [Touch Me Not] (1887), Ah Tek in Edgardo M. Reyes’s Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag [In the Claws of Neon] (1967), and Wei-fung in Ricardo Lee’s short story “Huwag, Huwag Mong Kukuwentuhan ang Batang si Wei Fung [Don’t, Don’t Tell Stories to Young Wei Fung]” (1969) – works and/or authors associated with films; Necessary Fictions is complemented by another text by the same author, titled On the Subject of the Nation: Filipino Writings from the Margins, 1981-2004 (2004).

Hedman, Eva-Lotta E., and John T. Sidel. Philippine Politics and Society in the Twentieth Century: Colonial Legacies, Postcolonial Trajectories. Politics in Asia series. London: Routledge. Discusses the “mockery of mimicry” in the films of Joey de Leon and Rene Requiestas.

Kalaw-Tirol, Lorna. Above the Crowd. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. More showbiz-focused than Public Faces, Private Lives.

———. Public Faces, Private Lives. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Emphasizes less prominent celebrities than Above the Crowd.

Lacaba, Jose F., ed. The Films of ASEAN. Quezon City: Association of Southeast Asian Nations Committee on Culture and Information. Clodualdo del Mundo Jr., “Philippines.”

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Writing the Nation / Pag-akda ng Bansa. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Revision of several previously anthologized film articles.

Rafael, Vicente L. White Love and Other Events in Filipino History. American Encounters/Global Interactions series. Durham: Duke University Press. “Patronage, Pornography, and Youth: Ideology and Spectatorship during the Early Marcos Years.”

Tolentino, Rolando B., ed. Geopolitics of the Visible: Essays on Philippine Film Cultures. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.

———. Richard Gomez at ang Mito ng Pagkalalake, Sharon Cuneta at ang Perpetwal na Birhen at Iba Pang Sanaysay ukol sa Bida sa Pelikula Bilang Kultural na Texto [Richard Gomez and the Myth of Masculinity, Sharon Cuneta and the Perpetual Virgin and Other Essays about Movie Stars as Cultural Texts]. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

Varnedoe, Kirk, Paola Antonelli, and Joshua Siege, eds. Modern Contemporary: Art Since 1980 at MOMA. New York: Museum of Modern Art. Features Bona, dir. Lino Brocka (NV Productions, 1980).


Cajayon, Gene, John Manal Castro, and Dawn Bohulano Mabalon. The Debut: The Making of a Filipino American Film. Chicago: Tulitos. Regarding The Debut, dir. Gene Cajayon (5 Card Productions, Celestial Pictures, Center for Asian American Media, National Asian American Telecommunications Association, Visual Communication, 2000).

Cordero-Fernando, Gilda, and M.G. Chaves. Pinoy Pop Culture. [Manila]: Bench/Suyen Corp., G.C. Fernando, and M.G. Chaves.

Cowie, Peter. The Apocalypse Now Book. 2000 (1st edition). Boston, Mass.: Da Capo Press. “The making of Francis Ford Coppola’s epic [American Zoetrope, 1979], based on unprecedented access to his private archives,… with 80 photographs, and exclusive detailed descriptions of material restored by Coppola for Apocalypse Now Redux (2001)” (cover description).

Garcellano, Edel E. Knife’s Edge: Selected Essays. Ed. Caroline S. Hau. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Goquingco, Leonor Orosa. Curtain Call: Selected Reviews, 1957-2000. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Includes reviews of performances of film actor Nora Aunor at the Philippine Educational Theater Association.

Hanan, David, ed. Film in South East Asia: Views from the Region (Essays on Film in 10 South East Asia – Pacific Countries). Hanoi: Southeast Asia-Pacific Audio Visual Archive Association. Agustin Sotto, “Philippines: A Brief History of Philippine Cinema.”

Lo, Ricardo F. Conversations with Ricky Lo. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Followed by Conversations Pa More (2016).

Mella-Salvador, Shaira, Raymond Lee, and Laurice Guillen. Tanging Yaman [A Change of Heart], the Film Book: Screenplay. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, ABS-CBN Consumer Products & Star Cinema. Screenplay of Tanging Yaman, dir. Laurice Guillen (Star Cinema, 2001).

Orellana, Ricky. Mowelfund Film Institute Catalog. Quezon City: [Movie Workers Welfare Fund] Film Institute.

Shiel, Mark, and Tony Fitzmaurice, eds. Cinema and the City: Film and Urban Societies in a Global Context. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Rolando B. Tolentino, “Cityscape: The Capital Infrastructuring and Technologization of Manila.”

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. The Urian Anthology 1980-1989. Manila: Antonio P. Tuviera. Includes filmography of 1980-89 Philippine film releases.

Tolentino, Rolando B. National/Transnational: Subject Formation and Media in and on the Philippines. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. “‘Inangbayan’ (Mother-Nation) in Lino Brocka’s Bayan Ko: Kapit sa Patalim (My Country: Clutching a Knife [Malaya Films & Stephan Films], 1985) and Orapronobis (Fight for Us [Bernadette Associates International], 1989)”; “Issues of the ‘Filipino/a’ in Asia-Pacific American Media Arts”; “Kidlat Tahimik in the Rhetoric of First World Theory”; “Subcontracting Imagination and Imageries of Bodies and Nations.”


De la Torre, Visitacion “Chit” R. Cultural Icons of the Philippines. Makati City: Tower Book House.

Feng, Peter X., ed. Screening Asian Americans. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Rolando B. Tolentino, “Identity and Difference in ‘Filipino/a American’ Media Arts.”

Holt, Elizabeth Mary. Colonizing Filipinas: Nineteenth-Century Representations of the Philippines in Western Historiography. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. “History as Visual Spectacle”; “Filipinas and Photography.”

King, Jenny. Great & Famous Filipinos. [Cainta, Rizal]: Worldlink Marketing Corp. Includes a number of pop-culture figures.

Parks, Lisa, and Shanti Kumar, eds. Planet TV: A Global Television Studies Reader. New York: New York University Press. José B. Capino, “Soothsayers, Politicians, Lesbian Scribes: The Philippine Movie Talk Show.”

Pulido, Rod. The Flip Side: A Filipino American Comedy. Chicago: Tulitos. Screenplay of The Flip Side, dir. Rod Pulido (Pure Pinoy, 2001).

Rodell, Paul A. Culture and Customs of the Philippines. Culture and Customs of Asia series. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. “Festivals, Theater, Film, Media, and Other Entertainment.”

Shaw, Angel Velasco, and Luis H. Francia, eds. Vestiges of War: The Philippine-American War and the Aftermath of an Imperial Dream, 1899-1999. New York: New York University Press. In conjunction with an exhibit titled Vestiges of War, “a project of Asian/Pacific/American Studies Program and Institute, New York University”; includes Nick Deocampo, “Imperialist Fictions: The Filipino in the Imperialist Imaginary.”

Tam Kwok-kan, Wimal Dissanayake, and Terry Siu-han Yip, eds. Sights of Contestation: Localism, Globalism and Cultural Production in Asia and the Pacific. Hong Kong: Chinese University Press. Rolando B. Tolentino, “Subcontracting Imagination and Imageries of Bodies and Nations: The Philippines in Contemporary Transnational Asia Pacific Cinemas.”

Vasudev, Aruna, Latika Padgaonkar, and Rashmi Doraiswamy, eds. Being & Becoming: The Cinemas of Asia. New Delhi: MacMillan. Clodualdo del Mundo Jr., “Philippines: Liver & Alive (1990s-2001)”; Luis H. Francia, “Side-stepping History: Beginnings to 1980s.”

Villasanta, Boy [as Julianito “Boy” Villasanta]. Tio Ticong: Pelikula at Pulitika (Vicente Salumbides) [Uncle Ticong: Film and Politics (of) Vicente Salumbides]. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.

Young Critics Circle[’s Film Desk]. Sampúng Taóng Sine [Ten Film Years]: Philippine Cinema 1990-1999. Manila: National Commission for Culture and the Arts.


Guneratne, Antony R., and Wimal Dissanayake, eds. Rethinking Third Cinema. New York: Routledge. Sumita S. Chakravarty’s “The Erotics of History: Gender and Transgression in the New Asian Cinema” closes with a discussion of Ishmael Bernal’s Himala [Miracle] (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1982) as an example of the “relationship between eroticism and spirituality, [exploring] its implications for Filipino constructions of history and identity.”

Gutierrez, Ben Paul B., ed. Cases on Arts and Culture Management in the Philippine Setting. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Manuel C. Dioquino Jr., “E-mail Conversations with Keith [Sicat] and Sari [Dalena]” (married film directors).

Laurel, Pedro C. Jr., Ramonfelipe A. Sarmiento, and Rody [as Rodolfo C.] Vera. Tatlong Dulang Pampelikula [Three Screenplays]. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Pedro C. Laurel Jr., “Ang Diego at Gabriela: Lagablab sa Ilocos [The (story of) Diego and Gabriela: Firestorm in Ilocos]”; Ramonfelipe A. Sarmiento, “Batingaw [Chime]”; Rody [as Rodolfo C.] Vera, “Senyor Pascual.”

Lico, Gerard. Edifice Complex: Power, Myth, and Marcos State Architecture. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. “The Cultural Center of the Philippines Complex,” with emphasis on the catastrophic construction history of the Manila Film Center.

The National Artists of the Philippines 1999-2003. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines & Anvil Publishing, 2003. Preceded by National Artists of the Philippines (1998). Justino Dormiendo, “Ishmael Bernal (Film, 2001): The Finest Poet of Philippine Cinema”; Lena S. Pareja, “Eddie Romero (Film, 2003): World-Class Filmmaker.”

Rivera, Frank G., and Mars Ravelo. Frank G. Rivera’s Darna, Etc.: Screenplays Based on Characters Created by Mars Ravelo. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. Adaptations by Frank G. Rivera of Mars Ravelo stories, including two produced films: Darna, dir. Joel Lamangan (Viva Films, 1991); and Dyesebel, dir. Emmanuel H. Borlaza (Viva Films, 1995; co-written with Borlaza).

Shohat, Ella, and Robert Stam, eds. Multiculturalism, Postcoloniality, and Transnational Media. Rutgers Depth of Field Series. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Talitha Espiritu, “Multiculturalism, Dictatorship, and Cinema Vanguards: Philippine and Brazilian Analogies.”

Tobias, Mel. Life Letters: Stories of a Wanderer. Vancouver: New Hogarath Press.

Zafra, Jessica. Twisted Flicks. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.


De Guzman, Nestor, and Albert M. Sunga, eds. Nora Aunor: Through the Years…. San Juan City: Ace Entertainment. Commemorative volume for the Through the Years concert.

Garcia, Jessie B. A Movie Album Quizbook. Iloilo City: Erehwon Books & Magazines.

Presidential Decree No. 1986 Creating the Movie & Television Review and Classification Board and Implementing Rules and Regulations, 2004. [Manila]: MTRCB.

Tadiar, Neferti X.M. [as Neferti Xina M. Tadiar]. Fantasy-Production: Sexual Economies and Other Philippine Consequences for the New World Order. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. “Himala, Miracle [dir. Ishmael Bernal (Regal Films, 1980)]: The Heretical Potential of Nora Aunor’s Star Power.”

Tiongson, Nicanor G., and Violeda A. Umali, eds. Critical Voice in Media Studies. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 1, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. José B. Capino, “Prosthetic Hysteria: Staging the Cold War in Filipino/American Docudrama”; Johven [as Jovenal] Velasco, “Filipino Film Melodrama of the Late 1950s: Two Case Studies of Accommodation of Hollywood Genre Models”; Anne Marie G. de Guzman, “Philippine Experimental Film Practice: Influences and Directions through the Films of Roxlee.”

Tolentino, Rolando B. Si Darna, ang Mahal na Birhen ng Peñafrancia, si Pepsi Paloma [Darna, the Blessed Virgin of Peñafrancia, (and) Pepsi Paloma]. Kulturang Popular Series No. 3. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

———. Paghahanap ng Virtual na Identidad [The Search for Virtual Identity]. Kulturang Popular Series No. 5. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.


De Guzman, Nestor, ed. Si Nora Aunor sa mga Noranian: Mga Paggunita at Pagtatapat [Nora Aunor to the Noranians: Remembrances and Confessions]. Quezon City: Milflores Publishing.

Deocampo, Nick. Films from a “Lost” Cinema: A Brief History of Cebuano Films. Quezon City: [Movie Workers Welfare Fund] Film Institute.

Tolentino, Rolando B., ed. Media and Popular Culture. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 2, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Emil Flores, “The Concept of the Superhero in Filipino Films.”

Vera, Noel. Critic after Dark: A Review of Philippine Cinema. Singapore: BigO Books.


Arriola, Joyce L. Postmodern Filming of Literature: Sources, Contexts, and Adaptations. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.

Beller, Jonathan. Acquiring Eyes: Philippine Visuality, Nationalist Struggle, and the World-Media System. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. “Directing the Real: Orapronobis [Fight for Us, dir. Lino Brocka (Bernadette Associates International, 1989)] against Philippine Totalitarianism (2000)”; “Third Cinema in a Global Frame: Curacha[: Ang Babaeng Walang Pahinga / A Woman without Rest, dir. Chito Roño (Regal Films, 1998)], Yahoo! and Manila by Night [dir. Ishmael Bernal (Regal Films, 1980)].”

Ciecko, Anne Tereska, ed. Contemporary Asian Cinema: Popular Culture in a Global Frame. Asian Cinema series. New York: Berg. José B. Capino, “Philippines: Cinema and Its Hybridity (Or You’re Nothing but a Second-Rate, Trying Hard Copycat).”

David, Joel, ed. Proceedings of the Whither the Orient: Asians in Asian and Non-Asian Cinema Conference, Kimdaejung Convention Center, Gwangju, Korea, 28-29 October 2006. Seoul: Asia Culture Forum.

Deocampo, Nick, ed. Lost Films of Asia. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

Deza, Alfonso B. Mythopoeic Poe: Understanding the Masa as Audience through the Films of Fernando Poe Jr. Manila: Great Books Publications.

Dimaranan, Irma V. Naglalayag [Silent Passage]. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Screenplay of Naglalayag, dir. Maryo J. de los Reyes (Angora Films, 2004).

Encanto, Georgina, ed. Media and History. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 3, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Michael Hawkins, “The Colonial Past in the Postcolonial Present: Eddie Romero’s Cavalry Command [Cirio H. Santiago Film Organization & Premiere Productions, 1958]”; Joyce Arriola, “The Impact of United States Colonization on the Rizalian Tradition in Cinema and Literature: A View of the Popular Arts as Postcolonial Historiography.”

Guardiola, Juan. El Imaginario colonial: Fotografia en Filipinas durante el periodo Español 1860-1898 [The Colonial Imaginary: Photography in the Philippines during the Spanish Period 1860-1898]. Barcelona: Casa Asia.

Halili, Servando D. Jr. Iconography of the New Empire: Race and Gender Images and the American Colonization of the Philippines. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Higgins, Steve. Still Moving: The Film and Media Collections of the Museum of Modern Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art. Features Bona, dir. Lino Brocka (NV Productions, 1980).

Isaac, Allan Punzalan. American Tropics: Articulating Filipino America. Critical American Studies Series. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Includes discussions of Philippines-set mid-century Hollywood productions as well as of Andrew Cunanan, subject of several films & TV specials as the spree killer whose last victim was Gianni Versace.

Kramer, Paul A. The Blood of Government: Race, Empire, the United States, and the Philippines. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Includes accounts of Dean C. Worcester’s activities and banning in the Philippines of the newsreel coverage of the heavyweight championship fight between Jack Johnson and James J. Jeffries, where Johnson (a black man) defeated his white contender.

Lehman, Peter, ed. Pornography and Culture. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. José B. Capino, “Asian College Girls and Oriental Men with Bamboo Poles: Reading Asian Pornography.”

Pasadilla, Gloria O., ed. The Global Challenge in Services Trade: A Look at Philippine Competitiveness. Makati City: Philippine Institute for Development Studies and German Technical Cooperation. Gloria O. Pasadilla and Angelina M. Lantin, “Audiovisual Services Sector: Can the Philippines Follow ‘Bollywood’?”

Pilapil, Pilar V. The Woman without a Face: The Life Story of Pilar Pilapil. Pasig City: Pilar Pilapil Foundation. Autobiography of the beauty queen and actor.

Torres-Yu, Rosario, ed. Kilates: Panunuring Pampanitikan ng Pilipinas [Appraisal: Critical Literature of the Philippines]. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Isagani R. Cruz, “Si Lam-ang, si Fernando Poe Jr., at si Aquino: Ilang Kuro-Kuro tungkol sa Epikong Filipino [(Mythological figure) Lam-ang, (film auteur) Fernando Poe Jr., and (Benigno S.) Aquino (Jr.): A Few Ideas on the Philippine Epic].”


Almario, Virgilio S., ed. 101 Filipino Icons. Quezon City: Adarna House.

Avecilla, Victor, and Josefina Santos, eds. Media and Freedom. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 4, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Armida Vallejo Santiago, “The Liberative Role of Discourse in Articulating Women’s Issues and Concerns in Filipino Melodramatic Films from 1990 to 2000”; Leticia Tojos, “Empowering Marginalized Filipinos Through Participatory Video Production.”

Baumgärtel, Tilman, ed. Kino-Sine: Philippine-German Cinema Relations. Makati City: Goethe-Institut Manila.

Deocampo, Nick. Cine: Spanish Influences on Early Cinema in the Philippines. Vol. 1 of Reflections on One Hundred Years of Cinema in the Philippines series. Manila: Cinema Values Reorientation Program, National Commission for Culture and the Arts. Succeeded by Film (2011) and Eiga (2016).

Fabros, David. Piolo, Believing: A Pictorial Biography of Piolo Pascual. Quezon City: Vibal Foundation. On the contemporary producer & actor.

Film Development Council of the Philippines. Philippine Film Catalogue. Pasig City: Film Development Council of the Philippines.

Fujiwara, Chris, ed. The Little Black Book [of] Movies: Over a Century of the Greatest Films, Stars, Scenes, Speeches and Events that Rocked the Movie World. London: Cassell Illustrated. “Part expert selection of [1,000] seminal moments, part glorious celebration of 100 years of cinema” (product description); includes contributions by Nick Deocampo and Noel Vera.

Malone, Peter, ed. Through a Catholic Lens: Religious Perspectives of 19 Film Directors from Around the World. Communication, Culture, and Religion Series. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Nicasio Cruz, “The Legacy of Lino Brocka.”

Marchetti, Gina, and Tan See Kam, eds. Hong Kong Film, Hollywood and the New Global Cinema. London: Routledge. Bliss Cua Lim, “Generic Ghosts: Remaking the New ‘Asian Horror Film.’”

Orsal, Cesar D. Movie Queen: Pagbuo ng Mito at Kapangyarihang Kultural ng Babae sa Lipunan [Formation of the Myth and Cultural Dominance of Women in Society]. Quezon City: New Day Publishers.

Tolentino, Rolando B. Sipat Kultura: Tungo sa Mapagpalayang Pagbabasa, Pag-aaral at Pagtuturo ng Panitikan [Culture View: Toward the Liberative Reading, Study and Teaching of Literature]. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.

Villasanta, Boy. Exposé: Peryodismong Pampelikula sa Pilipinas [Movie Journalism in the Philippines]. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.

Yeatter, Bryan L. Cinema of the Philippines: A History and Filmography, 1897-2005. Jefferson, NC: McFarland.


Aguila, Almond Pilar, Danilo Araña Arao, Alfonso Deza, Lourdes Portus, and Fernando Paragas, eds. Proceedings of the 8th ASEAN [Association of Southeast Asian Nations] Inter-University Conference on Social Development. CD-ROM format. Quezon City: University of the Philippines, Union Network International – Asia and Pacific, Free Trade Alliance, & National University of Singapore. Sheryl Rose M. Andes, “A Peek at the Winners of the Most Gender-Sensitive Film Awards of the Metro Manila Film Festival”; David R. Corpuz, “Subverting Zsa-Zsa Zaturnnah: A Critique of the Original Graphic Novel and Stage and Film Adaptations of Ang Kagila-gilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni Zsa-Zsa Zaturnnah [The Spectacular Adventures of Zsa-Zsa Zaturnnah]”; Joel David, “The Cold War and Marcos-Era Cinema in the Philippines”; Jongsuk Ham, “Online Games and Gender Issues in South Korea and the Philippines”; Roy Nicolas R. Molon Jr., “Women in a Better Light”; Danny Yu, “Gun-Toting Orientals: Global and Local Media Coverage of Andrew Cunanan and Cho Seung Hui.”

Carpio, Rustica C. Shuttling through Stage and Screen. Manila: Far Eastern University Publications. Veteran performer’s memoir.

Deocampo, Nick, ed. Sinegabay: A Film Study Guide. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

Enriquez, Elizabeth L. Appropriation of Colonial Broadcasting: A History of Early Radio in the Philippines, 1922-1946. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Includes a CD-ROM of available audio samples.

Fernandez, Marie P. My Life with My Brother Rudy Fernandez. [City unkn.]: Marie P. Fernandez. On the late action star, son of film director Gregorio Fernandez; book has “Daboy” (Rudy Fernandez’s nickname) on cover but not on title page.

Garcia, J. Neil C. Philippine Gay Culture: Binabae to Bakla, Silahis to MSM [Invert to Gay, Bisexual to Men Who Have Sex with Men]. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Reprint of Philippine Gay Culture, the Last Thirty Years: Binabae to Bakla, Silahis to MSM (1996). Mentions problematic depictions of queer sexualities in Philippine commercial cinema.

Holmlund, Chris, ed. American Cinema of the 1990s. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. José B. Capino, “Cinema and the Usable Past.”

Martin, Fran, Peter A. Jackson, Mark McLelland, and Audrey Yue, eds. AsiaPacifiQueer: Rethinking Genders and Sexualities. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Ronald Baytan, “Bading na Bading [Really Queer]: Evolving Identities in Philippine Cinema.”

Orteza, Bibeth. Dolphy: Hindi Ko Ito Narating Mag-isa [I Did Not Attain This by Myself]. Quezon City: Kaizz Ventures. Authorized biography of actor-producer Rodolfo Vera Quizon, a.k.a. Dolphy.

Patajo-Legasto, Priscelina, ed. Philippine Studies: Have We Gone Beyond St. Louis? Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Joel David, “Awake in the Dark: Philippine Film during the Marcos Era”; Eleanor Sarah D. Reposar, “Carlo Vergara’s ZsaZsa Zaturnnah and the Tradition of Subversion in Philippine Komiks”; Johven [as Jovenal] D. Velasco, “‘Feminized’ Heroes and ‘Masculinized’ Heroines: Changing Gender Roles in Contemporary Phiippine Cinema?”

Perdon, Renato. Footnotes to Philippine History. Manila: Manila Prints. Includes a citation of Himala [Miracle], dir. Ishmael Bernal (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1982), in discussing religious belief.

Remoto, Danton. Rampa: Mga Sanaysay [Sashay: Essays]. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Includes discourses on Freddie Aguilar, Nora Aunor, Ishmael Bernal, Darna, Joel Lamangan, Manila by Night [dir. Ishmael Bernal (Regal Films, 1980)], and Miss Saigon.

Samson, Laura, Brenda V. Fajardo, Cecilia B. Garrucho, Lutgardo L. Labad, and Ma. Gloriosa Santos Cabangon. A Continuing Narrative on Philippine Theater: The Story of PETA (Philippine Educational Theater Association). Quezon City: Philippine Educational Theater Association. “PETA’s Foray into Broadcast Theater.”

San Juan, E. Jr. From Globalization to National Liberation: Essays of Three Decades. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. “Allegories of National Liberation” discusses Savage Acts and Fairs – possibly Savage Acts, dir. Pennee Bender, Joshua Brown, and Andrea Ades Vasquez (American Social History Productions, 1995) – as well as Lino Brocka’s opposition to Imelda Marcos’s edifice complex; similar passages appear in a number of earlier books by the author.

Sarmenta, Severino R. Jr., ed. Movies that Matter: A Festschrift in Honor of [film critic & professor] Nicasio D. Cruz, S.J. [Quezon City]: Office of Research and Publications, Loyola Schools, Ateneo de Manila University.

Tiongson, Nicanor G. The Cinema of Manuel Conde. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. On the director, producer, and actor a.k.a. Juan Urbano, including a filmography of his productions.

Yu-Jose, Lydia N., ed. The Past, Love, Money and Much More: Philippines-Japan Relations since the End of the Second World War. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Tito Genova Valiente, “The Japanese in the Filipino Cinematic Space.”


Arao, Danilo, ed. Media and Communication Discourse. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 6, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Jose Gutierrez III, “Images of the Mother in Lino Brocka Films: 1970-1991.”

Avellana, Daisy Hontiveros. The Drama of It: A Life on Film and Theater. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Stage & film performer’s memoir of her life with Lamberto V. Avellana.

Lee, Ricky. Si Tatang at mga Himala ng Ating Panahon: Koleksyon ng mga Akda [Old Man and the Miracles of Our Time: Collection of Writings]. Special edition. Quezon City: Writers Studio Foundation. Screenplay of Himala, dir. Ishmael Bernal (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1982), reviews of other films, and interview articles; reprinted [as Ricardo Lee] from 1988.

Lico, Gerard. PA(ng)LABAS: Architecture + Cinema – Projection of Filipino Space in Film. Manila: National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

Lim, Bliss Cua. Translating Time: Cinema, the Fantastic, and Temporal Critique. Durham: Duke University Press. The book “interweaves scholarship on visuality with postcolonial historiography” (Duke University Press website) and discusses horror samples including Itim [The Rites of May], dir. Mike de Leon (Cinema Artists, 1976); Haplos [Caress], dir. Antonio Jose Perez (Mirick Films International, 1982); and Aswang [Viscera Sucker], dir. Peque Gallaga & Lore Reyes (Regal Films, 1992).

Lim, Jeanne. Tradisyon: Two Screenplays. Tubao Book Series of the Davao Writers Guild. Manila: National Commission for Culture and the Arts.

Paz, Consuelo J., ed. Ginhawa, Kapalaran, Dalamhati: Essays on Well-being, Opportunity/Destiny, and Anguish. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Patrick D. Flores, “Hanapbuhay sa mga Pelikula ni Nora Aunor [Occupation in the Films of Nora Aunor].”

Reyes, Soledad S. From Darna to ZsaZsa Zaturnnah: Desire and Fantasy (Essays on Literature and Popular Culture). Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. Includes studies on komiks-to-film crossovers including the title texts.

Sala, Letty T., and Felipe L. Reyes, eds. Glimpses: Essays, Letters, Memoirs (A Selection from the Writing Class from February to April, 2009). “Book concept” and foreword by Monina Allarey Mercado. Quezon City: Gabriel Books. A chapter by Michelle Gallaga comprises essays on her family, including her parents, producer-scriptwriter Madeleine Gallaga and director Peque Gallaga.

Sayles, John. Amigo [Friend]: Screenplay. Culver City, CA: Anarchist’s Convention Films. Screenplay of Amigo, dir. John Sayles (Anarchist’s Convention Films, 2010); paywalled access available online via John Sayles Blog.

See, Sarita Echavez. The Decolonized Eye: Filipino American Art and Performance. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. “An Open Wound” discusses Angel Velasco Shaw’s experimental documentary Nailed (Angel Velasco Shaw, 1992).

Tadiar, Neferti X.M. Things Fall Away: Philippine Historical Experience and the Makings of Globalization. Post-Contemporary Interventions series. Durham: Duke University Press. Mentions Nora Aunor and the career boost given by her performance in The Flor Contemplacion Story, dir. Joel Lamangan (Viva Films, 1995); discusses Sharon Cuneta’s stature as “arguably the most popular female movie star in the Philippines today”; and erroneously ascribes the “Second Golden Age” concept to an essay by Bienvenido Lumbera.

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. Media and Folklore. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 6, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Patrick F. Campos, “The Fantasy-Adventure Films as Contemporary Epics, 2000-2007”; Alvin Yapan, “Nang Mauso ang Pagpapantasya: Isang Pag-aaral sa Estado ng Kababalaghan sa Telebisyon [When Fantasizing Was in Vogue: A Study on the State of Wonderment on Television].”

Velasco, Johven. Huwaran/Hulmahan Atbp. [Model/Mold Etc.]: The Film Writings of Johven Velasco. Ed. Joel David. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Villasanta, Boy. Seksinema. San Pedro, Laguna: World Publishing.

Young Critics Circle. Sining ng Sineng Filipino [Art of the Filipino Film]. Aklat Sanyata series. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Sentro ng Wikang Filipino.


Arao, Danilo, ed. Global Makeover: Media and Culture in Asia. Seoul: Asian Media and Culture Forum & Development Center for Asia Africa Pacific. Conference proceedings, including Patrick F. Campos, “The New Fantasy-Adventure Film as Contemporary Epic, 2000-2007”; Joel David, “Orientalism and Classical Film Practice”; and Shirley Palileo-Evidente, “The Alternative Metaphor in Metaphors: Discursive ‘Readings’ on Language, Symbols, and Enculturation in Philippine Cinema and other Media.”

Bailey, Cameron, Frederic Maire, Piers Handling, Sergio Wolf, Wieland Speck, Kim Dong-Ho, Marco Muller, Michel Ouedraogo, and Li Cheuk-to. The Future of Film: 100 New Directors. Take 100 series. London: Phaidon Press Ltd. Each of ten film festival directors – representing Locarno, Toronto, Buenos Aires, Berlin, Pusan, Venice, Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso), and Hong Kong – selected ten of “the world’s most exceptional emerging film directors” along with a representative recent film from each one (from the Library of Congress’s publisher description); includes Philippine filmmakers Raya Martin with Maicling Pelicula nañg Ysañg Indio Nacional [A Short Film About the Indio Nacional] (Atopic films & The Hubert Bals Fund of the Rotterdam Festival, 2005), Brillante Mendoza with Masahista [The Masseur] (Gee Films International & Centerstage Productions, 2005), Pepe Diokno with Engkwentro [Clash] (Cinemalaya Foundation, 2009), and Auraeus Solito with Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros [The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros] (Cinemalaya Foundation & UFO Pictures, 2005).

Bayot, David Jonathan Y., ed. Inter/Sections: Isagani R. Cruz and Friends. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. “A festival of writings by mentors, colleagues, friends, and students – writing in honor of [film & literary critic] Isagani R. Cruz” (David Jonathan Y. Bayot).

Brody, David. Visualizing American Empire: Orientalism and Imperialism in the Philippines. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. “Strange Travelogues: Charles Longfellow in the Orient” is about the son of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow; against his father’s wishes, he toured Asian countries, settled in the Philippines, transformed his appearance, and accumulated souvenirs & photographs (in effect, an archive) of himself and his environment.

Capino, José B. Dream Factories of a Former Colony: American Fantasies, Philippine Cinema. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Carballo, Bibsy M. Filipino Directors Up Close: The Golden Ages of Philippine Cinema, 1950-2010. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

Day, Tony, and Maya H.T. Liem, eds. Cultures at War: The Cold War and Cultural Expression in Southeast Asia. Studies on Southeast Asia No. 51. Ithaca, NY: Southeast Asia Program Publications. Francisco Benitez, “Filming Philippine Modernity During the Cold War: The Case of Lamberto [V.] Avellana.”

De la Cruz, Khavn, Dodo Dayao, and Mabie Alagbate. Philippine New Wave: This Is Not a Film Movement. Quezon City: Noel D. Ferrer, MovFest, and Instamatic Writings.

Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr, ed. Spirituality and the Filipino Film. Film and Faith series. Manila: Communication Foundation for Asia.

Enriquez, Elizabeth L., ed. Media, Gender and Sexuality. Special issue of Review of Women’s Studies, vol. 20, nos. 1-2. Quezon City: Center for Women’s Studies [of the] University of the Philippines.

Francisco, Butch. Eat Bulaga: Ang Unang Tatlong Dekada [Lunchtime Surprise: The First Three Decades]. Pasig City: TAPE. On the still-running daily noontime TV program that first aired in 1979.

Guardiola, Juan, ed. Cinema Filipinas: Historia, teoría y crítica fílmica (1999-2009) [Philippine Cinema: History, Theory, and Film Criticism (1999-2009)]. [Andalucía]: Juna de Andalucía, Consejería de Cultura Fundación El Legado Andalusí. Retrospective volume, with English translations.

Lacaba, Jose F. Showbiz Lengua: Chika and Chismax about Chuvachuchu [Showbiz Lingo: Small Talk and Gossip about Everything]. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing. A “compilation of 68 columns that [the author] wrote for YES! Magazine from 2003 to 2009” (Jose F. Lacaba, Ka Pete blog, November 2010).

Pertierra, Raul. The Anthropology of New Media in the Philippines. Quezon City: Institute of Philippine Culture, Ateneo de Manila University.

Pichay, Nicolas B. A Guide to the Intellectual Property Code of the Philippines: Understanding the Law, Empowering the Artist. Pasig City: Anvil Publishing.

Portus, Lourdes M., ed. Communication and Media Studies in Asia. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 7, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Taeyun Yu, “Eastern Gunslingers: Andrew Cunanan and Seung-Hui Cho in Western Media Imaginary.”

Protacio, Romeo M. Romualdo. Balik Tanaw [Recollection]: The Filipino Movie Stars of Yesteryears. [San Diego]: Asian Journal San Diego.

Reyes, Edgardo M. Mga Uod at Rosas [Caterpillars and Roses]. Quezon City: C & E Publishing. Novelization of Mga Uod at Rosas, dir. Romy V. Suzara (Ian Film Productions, 1982).

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. The Urian Anthology 1990-1999. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Includes filmography of 1990-99 Philippine film releases.

Torres, Cristina Evangelista. The Americanization of Manila: 1898-1921. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Includes accounts of Dean C. Worcester’s activities.

Yapan, Alvin, and Glenda Oris, eds. Burador [Draft]. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Classical & contemporary studies on Philippine popular culture.


Cheung, Esther M.K., Gina Marchetti, and Tan See-Kam, eds. Hong Kong Screenscapes: From the New Wave to the Digital Frontier. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Roger Garcia, John Woo, & Jessica Hagedorn’s “Alternative Perspectives/Alternative Cinemas: Modern Films and the Hong Kong Experimental Scene” comprises “a discussion of a representative program of experimental films by three filmmakers – Jim Shum, Comyn Mo, and [Filipino] Raymond Red, all produced in Hong Kong and Manila in the 1980s under Garcia’s Modern Films Productions company, and shown at the Hollywood/Hong Kong at the Borders: Alternative Perspectives, Alternative Cinema symposium in April 2004” (chapter description in Oxford Index).

Deocampo, Nick. Film: American Influences on Philippine Cinema. Vol. 2 of Reflections on One Hundred Years of Cinema in the Philippines series. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Preceded by Cine (2007) and succeeded by Eiga (2016).

Devera, Jojo. Si Elwood, Pelikula, Atbp. [Elwood, Film, Etc.]. Quezon City: Jojo Devera. A study of Elwood Perez as filmmaker.

Kapur, Jyotsna, and Keith B. Wagner, eds. Neoliberalism and Global Cinema: Capital, Culture, and Marxist Critique. New York: Routledge. Bliss Cua Lim, “Gambling on Life and Death: Neoliberal Rationality and the Films of Jeffrey Jeturian.”

Lumbera, Bienvenido. Re-Viewing Filipino Cinema. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Includes articles previously published in Revaluation (1984 & 1997).

Orengo, Oscar Fernández. 44 cineastas Filipinos / 44 Filipino Filmmakers / 44 mga Sineastang Pilipino. [Manila]: Instituto Cervantes de Manila.

Philippine LGBT-Related Films, Including: Masahista [Masseur, dir. Brillante Mendoza (Gee Films Productions International & Centerstage Productions, 2005)], Aishite Imasu 1941: Mahal Kita [I Love You, dir. Joel Lamangan (Regal Films, 2004)], Miguel/Michelle [dir. Gil Portes (Forefront Films, 1998)], Macho Dancer [dir. Lino Brocka (Award Films, Special People Productions & Viva Films, 1988)], Ang Lalaki sa Buhay ni Selya [The Man in Selya’s Life, dir. Carlos Siguion-Reyna (Reyna Films & Star Pacific Cinema, 1987)], The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros [dir. Aureaus Solito (Cinemalaya & UFO Pictures, 2005)], Paper Dolls (film) [dir. Tomer Heymann (Claudius Films, L.M. Media, Heymann Brothers Films, & The Film Sales Co., 2006)], Twilight Dancers [dir. Mel Chionglo (Centerstage Productions, 2006)], Burlesk King [dir. Mel Chionglo (Seiko Films, 1999)], Markova: Comfort Gay [dir. Gil Portes (RVQ Productions, 2000)]. [Toronto: Hephaestus Books.]

San Juan, Edgar, Son-hwa Yi, Aramch’an Yi, and Hye-jong Mok. Kidlat Tahimik. JIFF ch’ongso series. [Jeonju]: Jeonju International Film Festival. On film director Kidlat Tahimik.

Santiago, Arminda Vallejo, ed. Youth and Media. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 8, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Jongsuk Ham, “Fluid Identities in the Structure of Cyberspace: A Comparison of Philippine and Korean Experiences”; Pamela Marie Cruz, “Ang Karanasan ng Nakaraan sa Gunitang Viswal: Pagsusuri sa mga Pelikulang Romantiko sa Baguio [The Past Experienced via Visual Recollection: Critique of Romantic Films (set in) Baguio].”

Tolentino, Rolando B., ed. Vaginal Economy. Special issue of Positions: Asia Critique, vol. 19, no. 2. Durham: Duke University Press. On “Cinema and Sexuality in the Post-Marcos, Post-Brocka Philippines” (guest editor’s introduction).

Velarde, Emmie G. Show Biz, Seriously: A Collection of Essays and Feature Articles. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.


Baluyut, Pearlie Rose S. Institutions and Icons of Patronage: Arts and Culture in the Philippines during the Marcos Years, 1965-1986. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.

Baumgärtel, Tilman, ed. Southeast Asian Independent Cinema. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press. Tilman Baumgärtel, “The Downside of Digital: A German Media Critic Plays Devil’s Advocate.”

Cruz, Denise. Transpacific Femininities: The Making of the Modern Filipina. Durham: Duke University Press. “Transpacific Femininities, Multimedia Archives, and the Global Marketplace” discusses the figure of Imelda Marcos via David Byrne & Fatboy Slim’s musical Here Lies Love: A Song Cycle about Imelda Marcos & Estrella Cumpas (Nonesuch Records & Todomundo, 2010), and describes how the deluxe edition’s DVD makes use of images from “footage of late 1970s and early 1980s club scenes [and] news clips of violence and revolt during the martial law years,” as well as scenes from Iginuhit ng Tadhana [Determined by Destiny]: The Ferdinand E. Marcos Story, dir. Conrado Conde, Jose de Villa, & Mar S. Torres (777 Films & Sampaguita Pictures, 1965).

David, Joel, ed. A Closer Look at Manila by Night. Forum of Kritika Kultura, no. 19. Quezon City: Department of English [of the] Ateneo de Manila University. A study of Manila by Night, dir. Ishmael Bernal (Regal Films, 1980); includes the screenplay by Ishmael Bernal, transcribed by Joel David and translated to English by Alfred A. Yuson.

Ingawanij, May Adadol, and Benjamin McKay, eds. Glimpses of Freedom: Independent Cinema in Southeast Asia. Ithaca, NY: Cornell Southeast Asia Program Publications. Tilman Baumgärtel, “The Piracy Generation: Media Piracy and Independent Film in Southeast Asia”; Eloisa May P. Hernandez, “The Beginnings of Digital Cinema in Southeast Asia”; Alexis A. Tioseco, “Like the Body and the Soul: Independence and Aesthetics in Contemporary Philippine Cinema”; John Torres, “Piracy Boom Boom.”

Kim Youna, ed. Women and the Media in Asia: The Precarious Self. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Bliss Cua Lim, “Fandom, Consumption and Collectivity in the Philippine New Cinema: Nora and the Noranians.”

Lanot, Marra PL. Darna & Other Idols. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Feature articles on Ryan Agoncillo, Gina Alajar, Lualhati Bautista, Ryan Cayabyab, Lucy & Richard Gomez, Marian Rivera, Rosanna Roces, Vilma Santos & Ralph Recto, Ali Sotto, et al.

Lee, Ricky. Sa Puso ng Himala [In the Heart of Miracle]. Quezon City: Philippine Writers Studio Foundation. Screenplay of Himala, dir. Ishmael Bernal (Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, 1982), production notes, interviews.

Reyes, Soledad S. Salungat [Opposed]: A Soledad S. Reyes Reader. Ed. David Jonathan Y. Bayot. Academica Filipina series. Quezon City: Vibal Foundation. “Si Erap Para sa Mahirap [Joseph Estrada for the Poor]: The Discourse of the Powerless”; “Fernando Poe Jr.: The Making of a Legend.”

Tolentino, Rolando B., ed. Queer Media and Representations. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 9, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Joel David, “Thinking Straight: Queer Imaging in Lino Brocka’s Maynila[: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag / Manila: In the Claws of Neon, dir. Lino Brocka, prod. Cinema Artists] (1975)”; J. Neil C. Garcia, “Postcolonial Camp: Hybridity and Performative Inversions in ZsaZsa Zaturnnah [Ze Moveeh, dir. Joel Lamangan, prod. Regal Films, Regal Multimedia, & Ignite Entertainment (2006)].”


Almajose, Kathy, and JV Ramos. Kakaibang Tingin, Kakaibang Titig [Different Look, Different Gaze]: An Appreciation of the Golden Period in Philippine Cinema. [Batangas City]: La Abuela Publishing House.

Castillo, Celso Ad. Celso Ad. Castillo: An Autobiography & His Craft. [Manila]: CELCAS Film Entertainment.

Enriquez, Elizabeth L., ed. Media and Gender Identity. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 10, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Rommel B. Rodriguez, “Representasyon ng Pagkalalaki sa Pelikulang Bakbakan ni FPJ [Representation of Masculinity in the Action Film of Fernando Poe Jr.].”

Fabie, Celine Beatrice. Mona Lisa: A Portrait from the Memoirs of a Grandmother. Parañaque City: Mona Lisa Publication. On the globally renowned film performer.

Fernandez, Manuel B., and Ronald K. Constantino. A Tribute to the Movie Queen Carmen Rosales: Ang Tangi Kong Pag-ibig [My Only Love]. Makati City: DLD Publishing.

Gamboa, Jose T. Brocka: The Filmmaker without Fear. Modern Heroes for the Filipino Youth series. Makati City: Bookmark. On Filipino director Lino Brocka.

Hau, Caroline S., Isabelita O. Reyes, and Katrina Tuvera, eds. Querida [Paramour]: An Anthology. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Ricky [as Ricardo] Lee, Raquel Villavicencio, & Ishmael Bernal, Relasyon [Affair], screenplay of the film, dir. Ishmael Bernal (Regal Films, 1982).

Nepales, Ruben. My Filipino Connection: The Philippines in Hollywood. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Includes articles on Bernardo Bernardo, Vanessa Hudgens, Jake Zyrus [as Charice Pempengco], Darren Criss, Bessie Badilla, Matthew Libatique, Ramona Diaz, Mikey Bustos, et al.

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. Media and History. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 10, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. José S. Buenconsejo, “Orientalism in the Narrative, Music and Myth of the Amok in the 1937 Film Zamboanga [dir. Eduardo de Castro, prod. Filippine Productions]”; Ma. Rina Locsin, “A Brief History of the Baguio Sine.”

———, ed. The Urian Anthology 2000-2009: The Rise of the Philippine New Wave Indie Film. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Includes filmography of 2000-10 Philippine film releases.

Yoneno-Reyes, Michiyo, ed. East Asian Popular Culture: Philippine Perspectives. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Asian Center.


Barker, Joshua, Erik Harris, and Johan Lindquist, eds. Figures of Southeast Asian Modernity. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. José B. Capino, “Domestic Helper.”

Barrow, Sarah, Sabine Haenni, and John White, eds. The Routledge Encyclopedia of Films. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. José B. Capino, “Manila: In the Claws of Neon / Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag[, dir. Lino Brocka (Cinema Artists, 1975)].”

Cañete, Reuben Ramas. Masculinity, Media, and Their Publics in the Philippines: Selected Essays. Media and Communication series. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. “Subjects of [the] essays in the book include post-EDSA homoerotic cinema, outright pornography, Bench billboard ads, Manny Pacquiao, and the [University of the Philippines’s symbolic] Oblation” (UP Press Facebook announcement).

David, Joel, ed. [Overseas Filipino Workers] in Foreign Cinema. Monograph of Kritika Kultura, nos. 21 & 22. Quezon City: Department of English [of the] Ateneo de Manila University.

———. Fields of Vision: The Digital Edition. Quezon City: Amauteurish Publishing. Revision & update of the 1995 book edition, available at the Ámauteurish! website.

———. The National Pastime: The Digital Edition. Quezon City: Amauteurish Publishing. Revision & update of the 1990 book edition, available at the Ámauteurish! website.

———. Wages of Cinema: The Digital Edition. Quezon City: Amauteurish Publishing. Revision & update of the 1998 book edition, available at the Ámauteurish! website.

David, Joel, and Violeda A. Umali, eds. Media and the Diaspora. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 11, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Louie Jon A. Sanchez, “Koreanovelas, Teleseryes, and the ‘Diasporization’ of the Filipino/the Philippines”; Joel David, “Phantom Limbs in the Body Politic: Filipinos in Foreign Cinema”; Andrew Leavold, “Bamboo Gods and Bionic Boys: A Brief History of the Philippines’ B Films.”

De la Paz, Cecilia S., and Patrick D. Flores. Sining at Lipunan [Art and Society]. Aklat Sanyata series. Quezon City: Sentro ng Wikang Filipino – Diliman. 2nd edition of Patrick D. Flores & Cecilia S. de la Paz’s Sining at Lipunan (1997).

Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr., ed. Making Waves: 10 Years of Cinemalaya [Philippine Independent Film Festival]. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing.

Garcia, J. Neil C. The Postcolonial Perverse: Critiques of Contemporary Philippine Culture, Volume 1. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Table of Contents contains the heading “Volume One: The Postcolonial”; includes “Philippine Cinema: The State of the Art.”

Gutierrez-Ang, Jaime. Tanglaw Introduction to Film: An Outcomes-Based Text Manual in Film Aesthetics, Appreciation, Theory and Criticism for the Filipino Student. Manila: Mindshapers.

Hau, Caroline S. The Chinese Question: Ethnicity, Nation, and Region in and Beyond the Philippines. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2014. Includes discussions of the works of scriptwriter Ricardo Lee and producer Lily Monteverde (particularly Regal Films’ Mano Po [Your Blessing, Please] series), as well as of Armando Garces’s Dragnet (1973, scripted by Lee), Eddie Romero’s Ganito Kami Noon … Paano Kayo Ngayon? [As We Were] (1976), and Mark Meily’s Crying Ladies (2003).

Hernandez, Eloisa May P. Digital Cinema in the Philippines, 1999-2009. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Rice, Mark. Dean Worcester’s Fantasy Islands: Photography, Film, and the Colonial Philippines. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

Tolentino, Rolando B. Contestable Nation-Space: Cinema, Cultural Politics, and Transnationalism in the Marcos-Brocka Philippines. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. On the anti-dictatorship activism of film director Lino Brocka during the regime of Ferdinand E. Marcos.

Tolentino, Rolando B., and Josefina M.C. Santos, eds. Media at Lipunan [Media and Society]. Media and Communication Textbook Series. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Nicanor G. Tiongson, “The Politics of Film Censorship.”

Tolentino, Rolando B., Patrick F. Campos, Randy Jay C. Solis, and Choy S. Pangilinan, eds. Communication and Media Theories. Media and Communication Textbook Series. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. Isagani R. Cruz, “Si Lam-ang, si Fernando Poe Jr., at si Aquino: Ilang Kuro-Kuro tungkol sa Epikong Filipino [(Mythological figure) Lam-ang, (film auteur) Fernando Poe Jr., and (Benigno S.) Aquino (Jr.): A Few Ideas on the Philippine Epic]”; Rolando B. Tolentino, “Masses, Power, and Gangsterism in the Films of Joseph ‘Erap’ Estrada”; Soledad Reyes, “Ang Mambabasa/Manonood, ang ‘Mass Media,’ at ang Paglikha ng Kahulugan [The Reader/Viewer, the ‘Mass Media,’ and the Production of Meaning]”; Patrick D. Flores, “Bodies of Work: Sexual Circulation in Philippine Cinema”; Eulalio R. Guieb III, “Worlding the Third World (O Kung Paanong Nagkadaigdig ang Ikatlong Daigdig sa mga Pelikula ni Kidlat Tahimik) [Or How the Third World Became Worlded in the Films of Kidlat Tahimik].”


Bandhauer, Andrea, and Michelle Royer, eds. Stars in World Cinema: Screen Icons and Star Systems Across Cultures. London: I.B. Tauris & Co. Bliss Cua Lim, “Sharon’s Noranian Turn: Stardom, Race, and Language in Philippine Cinema” discusses Sharon Cuneta’s successful replication of Nora Aunor’s early rags-to-riches-via-singing film persona.

Baumgärtel, Tilman, ed. A Reader on International Media Piracy: Pirate Essays. MediaMatters series. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Tilman Baumgärtel, “The Triumph of the Pirates: Books, Letters, Movies, and Vegan Candy – Not a Conclusion.”

David, Joel, ed. On Nora Aunor and the Philippine Star System. Forum of Kritika Kultura, no. 25. Quezon City: Department of English [of the] Ateneo de Manila University.

Ferrer, Noel D. Mag-Artista Ka! Mga Dapat Mong Malaman Para Sumikat sa Showbiz sa Tamang Paraan, sa Tamang Panahon [Be a Star! What You Should Learn to Get Famous in Showbiz in the Right Way, at the Right Time]. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Filipino version of Sisikat Din Ako!

———. Sisikat Din Ako! [I’ll Also Get Famous!] Your Guide to Making Your Mark in Show Business. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. English version of Mag-Artista Ka!

Jimenez, Ruby Rosa A., ed. Heneral Luna: The History Behind The Movie. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Regarding Heneral Luna, dir. Jerrold Tarog (Artikulo Uno Productions, 2015), based on “an interview with Dr. Vivencio R. Jose, author of The Rise and Fall of Antonio Luna” (cover text).

Kwon Dong Hwan. Westernized Visual Representation of Jesus and the Construction of Religious Meanings: A Reception Analysis of The Jesus Film (1979) among the Mangyan Tribes. Asbury Theological Seminary Series in Christian Revitalization Studies. Lexington, KY: Emeth Press. Study of The Jesus Film, dirs. John Krish & Peter Sykes (Inspirational Films & The Genesis Project, 1979).

Lacuesta, Angelo Rodriguez, ed. Contra Mundum [Against the World]: On the Film Restoration of Nick Joaquin’s A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino. [Quezon City]: Miguel P. de Leon Publishing. Regarding A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino, dir. Lamberto V. Avellana (Diadem Productions & Cinema Artists Philippines, 1965). See Girlie Rodis (ed.), Ang Larawan [The Portrait]: From Stage to Screen (2017), for the text of the play.

Miller, Toby, ed. The Routledge Companion to Global Popular Culture. New York: Routledge. Talitha Espiritu, “Performing Native Identities: Human Displays and Indigenous Activism in Marcos’s Philippines.”

Rodriguez, Simon Godfrey, Nina Macaraig-Gamboa, and Wylzter Gutierrez. Legacy. Modern Heroes for the Filipino Youth series. Makati City: Bookmark & Studio Graphics Corp. On film & theater director Lamberto V. Avellana.

Sevilla, Juan Miguel. One More Chance. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of One More Chance, dir. Cathy Garcia-Molina (ABS-CBN Film Productions & Star Cinema, 2007).

Siguion-Reyna, Armida, and Nelson A. Navarro. Armida. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Comprising “The Unfinished Memoirs” by Armida Siguion-Reyna; and “Armida Siguion-Reyna: The Singer and the Song” by Nelson A. Navarro.

Tolentino, Rolando B., and Gary C. Devilles, eds. Kritikal na Espasyo ng Kulturang Popular [Critical Spaces of Popular Culture]. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.


Africa, Antonio P. Expressions of Tagalog Imaginary: The Tagalog Sarswela and Kundiman in Early Films in the Philippines (1939-1959). Full issue of UNITAS: Semi-Annual Peer-Reviewed International Online Journal of Advanced Research in Literature, Culture, and Society, vol. 89, no. 2. Manila: University of Santo Tomas.

Aitken, Ian, and Camille Deprez, eds. The Colonial Documentary Film in South and South-East Asia. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. José B. Capino, “Figures of Empire: American Documentaries in the Philippines.”

Balce, Nerissa. Body Parts of Empire: Visual Abjection, Filipino Images, and the American Archive. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

Campos, Patrick F. The End of National Cinema: Filipino Film at the Turn of the Century. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

———, ed. Intellectuals, the Public Arena, and the Nation. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 13, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Joyce Arriola, “Visual Artists as Literary Artists: Fantasy and Folklore in 1950s Komiks-to-Film Adaptations.”

David, Adam, Carljoe Javier, Noel Pascual, and Mervin Malonzo. Shake Rattle & Roll: Kahindik-hindik na Klasikong Katatakutan [Terrifying Horror Classics]. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Based on Shake, Rattle & Roll II, dir. Peque Gallaga & Lore Reyes (Regal Films, 1990).

David, Joel. Book Texts: A Pinoy Film Course. Original digital edition. Quezon City: Amauteurish Publishing. A collection drawn from previous book publications, available exclusively at the Ámauteurish! website.

Deocampo, Nick. Eiga: Cinema in the Philippines during World War II. Vol. 3 of Reflections on One Hundred Years of Cinema in the Philippines series. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Preceded by Cine (2007) and Film (2011).

Deramas, Wenn V. Direk 2 da Poynt [Direct(or) to the Point]. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Written and published autobiography, posthumously launched.

Elly, Queen. Vince & Kath series. 7 volumes, with vols. 6 & 7 titled Vince & Kath & James. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Origin of and takeoff from Vince & Kath & James, dir. Theodore Boborol (Star Cinema, 2016). Originally a “textserye” (“social serye” on the book covers) appearing on Facebook, comprising exchanges among the characters, with the later books bearing individual titles: Book 2, Remember; Book 3, Promise; Book 4, Walang Titibag [None Can Destroy]; Book 5, Cheer and Var (Kath & Vince’s respective terms of endearment); Book 6, The Reunion; and Book 7, The Finale. (Per Roumella Nina L. Monge, in an email exchange, “books 5 & 6 were developed alongside the creation of the film.”)

Grant, Paul Douglas, and Misha Boris Anissimov. Lilas [Film]: An Illustrated History of the Golden Ages of Cebuano Cinema. Cebu City: University of San Carlos Press.

Lo, Ricardo F. Conversations Pa More. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Sequel of Conversations with Ricky Lo (2001).

Loriga, Renato. Autohystoria: Visioni postcoloniali del nuovo cinema filippino [Postcolonial Visions of the New Filipino Cinema]. Studi postcoloniali di cinema e media series no. 4. Canterano, RM: Aracne editrice. A study of Autohystoria, dir. Raya Martin (Cinematografica, 2007).

Manalansan, Martin F., and Augusto F. Espiritu, eds. Filipino Studies: Palimpsests of Nation and Diaspora. New York: New York University Press. Robert Diaz’s “Redressive Nationalisms, Queer Victimhood, and Japanese Duress” discusses the claims of Walter Dempster Jr. a.k.a. [Walterina] Markova: Comfort Gay [male enslaved for sex work by the Japanese Imperial Army during World War II], dir. Gil Portes (RVQ Productions, 2000).

Manzanilla, JPaul S., and Caroline S. Hau, eds. Remembering/Rethinking EDSA. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Joel David, “Grains & Flickers”; Patrick D. Flores, “A Cinema in Transition: Initial Incursions.”

Pascual, Chuckberry J. Pagpasok sa Eksena: Ang Sinehan sa Panitikan at Pag-aaral ng Piling Sinehan sa Recto [Scene Entrance: The Movie House in Literature and the Study of Selected Theaters along Recto (Avenue)]. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Tolentino, Rolando B. Indie Cinema at mga Sanaysay sa Topograpiya ng Pelikula ng Filipinas [Indie Cinema and Essays on the Topography of Philippine Cinema]. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House.

———. Keywords: Essays on Philippine Media Cultures and Neocolonialisms. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press.

Travers, Steven. Coppola’s Monster Film: The Making of Apocalypse Now. Jefferson, NC: McFarland. Regarding Apocalypse Now, dir. Francis Ford Coppola (American Zoetrope, 1979).


Bernal, Ishmael, Jorge Arago, and Angela Stuart Santiago. Pro Bernal Anti Bio. Manila: ABS-CBN Publishing. Biography of Ishmael Bernal, authorizing Jorge Arago, completed by Angela Stuart Santiago.

Cabahug, Eric. Deadma Walking [Superciliously Walking]. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of Deadma Walking, dir. Julius Alfonso (T-Rex Entertainment Productions, 2017); “dedma,” a contraction of “dead malice” (a transliteration of “patay malisya”), refers to feigning ignorance.

Chua, Jonathan, Rosario Cruz-Lucero, and Rolando B. Tolentino, eds. A Reader in Philippine Film: History and Criticism (Essays in Honor of [film & culture critic] Nicanor G. Tiongson). Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

David, Joel. Manila by Night: A Queer Film Classic. Queer Film Classics series, eds. Thomas Waugh & Matthew Hays. Vancouver: Arsenal Pulp Press. A study of Manila by Night, dir. Ishmael Bernal (Regal Films, 1980).

Deocampo, Nick, ed. Early Cinema in Asia. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.

Dizon, Christianne, ed. Team Real: Your All-Access Pass into James Reid & Nadine Lustre’s World. Pasig City: VRJ Books.

Espiritu, Talitha. Passionate Revolutions: The Media and the Rise and Fall of the Marcos Regime. Ohio University Research in International Studies Southeast Asia Series No. 132. Athens: Ohio University Press. “National Discipline and the Cinema”; “The New Politics, Lino Brocka, and People Power”; “The Force of National Allegory.”

Fantauzzo, Laurel. The First Impulse. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. On the unsolved September 2009 murder case of film critics Alexis Tioseco and his Slovenian partner Nika Bohinc.

Gomez, Jerome. Batch ’81: The Making of a Mike de Leon Film. Singapore: Asian Film Archive. Regarding Batch ’81, dir. Mike de Leon (MVP Pictures, 1982).

Ha Ju-yong, ed. Hallyu in and for Asia. Forum of Kritika Kultura, no. 28. Quezon City: Department of English [of the] Ateneo de Manila University. Joel David, “Remembering the Forgotten War: Origins of the Korean War Film and Its Development during Hallyu”; Maria Luisa Torres Reyes, “Multicultural Bildungsroman: Coming of Age between Han and Sana.”

Lacap, Iris. Crazy Beautiful You: The Novel. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of Crazy Beautiful You, dir. Mae Czarina Cruz [as Mae Cruz-Alviar] (ABS-CBN Film Productions & Star Cinema, 2015).

Laxamana, Jason Paul. 100 Tula Para Kay Stella [100 Poems for Stella]. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of 100 Tula Para Kay Stella, dir. Jason Paul Laxamana (Viva Films, 2017).

Leavold, Andrew. The Search for Weng Weng. Melbourne: LedaTape Organisation. On the filming of The Search for Weng Weng documentary, dir. Andrew Leavold (Death Rides a Red Horse & Turkeyshoot Productions, 2013).

Mendoza, Maine. Yup, I Am that Girl. Pasig City: Summit Publishing Co. On the comedian, host, and viral internet personality.

Mijares, Primitivo. The Conjugal Dictatorship of Ferdinand and Imelda Marcos: Revised and Annotated. Quezon City: Bughaw. Original published in 1976.

National Commission for Culture and the Arts. Bilang Filipinas: A Primer on Philippine Cultural Statistics. Manila: NCCA. “Bilang” means both counting and representing.

Pichay, Nicolas B. Maxie: Book & Lyrics by Nicolas B. Pichay, Adapted from the Screenplay of Michiko Yamamoto. Manila: University of Santo Tomas Publishing House. Based on Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros [The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros], dir. Aureaus Solito (Cinemalaya & UFO Pictures, 2005).

Ramsey, Sansu. Elizabeth Ramsey: Queen of Philippine Rock n’ Roll. Scotts Valley, CA: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform. Authorized biography of the late multimedia entertainer, of Jamaican and Spanish descent, by her daughter.

Rodis, Girlie, ed. Ang Larawan [The Portrait]: From Stage to Screen. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Includes (among others) the screenplay by Alemberg Ang, Loy Arcenas, Ryan Cayabyab, Waya Gallardo, Celeste Legaspi, Dennis Marasigan, Girlie Rodis, & Rolando Tinio of Ang Larawan, dir. Loy Arcenas (Culturtain Musicat Productions, 2017).

Tiongson, Nicanor G., ed. Broadcast Arts. Vol. 10 (of 12 vols.) of Cultural Center of the Philippines Encyclopedia of Philippine Art. 2nd edition. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines & the Office of the Chancellor, University of the Philippines Diliman. No equivalent volume in the 1st edition of the CCP Encyclopedia of Philippine Art.

———, ed. Film. Vol. 6 (of 12 vols.) of Cultural Center of the Philippines Encyclopedia of Philippine Art. 2nd edition. Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines & the Office of the Chancellor, University of the Philippines Diliman. Equivalent volume of Philippine Film, vol. 8 in the 1st edition of the CCP Encyclopedia of Philippine Art.


Baltazar, Dwein. Exes Baggage. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Screenplay of Exes Baggage, dir. Dan Villegas (Black Sheep, 2018).

Bautista, Mark. Beyond the Mark. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Singer, actor, & model’s coming-out narrative.

Bernardo, Sigrid Andrea. Kita Kita [I See You]: The Novel. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of Kita Kita, dir. Sigrid Andrea Bernardo (Spring Films, 2017).

Bonifacio, Bobby Jr., and Juvy G. Galamiton. Hospicio [Hospice]: The Original Screenplay. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Screenplay of Hospicio, dir. Bobby Bonifacio Jr. (Cinema One & Project 8 Corner San Joaquin Projects, 2018).

Cabagnot, Edward delos Santos. Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time and Manuel Silos’s Biyaya ng Lupa [Blessings of the Land]. Media and Communication series. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press. A study of the 1927 Seit und Zeit text (in English translation) vis-à-vis Biyaya ng Lupa, dir. Manuel Silos (LVN Pictures, 1959).

Cais, Ethelinda. Mr. and Mrs. Cruz: The Novel. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of Mr. and Mrs. Cruz, dir. Sigrid Andrea Bernardo (IdeaFirst Co. & Viva Films, 2018).

Deyto, Epoy. Krisis at Pelikula: Mga Paunang Tala tungkol sa mga Imahe at Eksena sa Panahon ng Digma [Crisis and Film: Preliminary Notes about Images and Scenes during a Time of War]. Pasig City: TollidBilly & Shonenbat Collective. Available at the author’s Missing Codec blog.

Flores, Pao. She’s the One: The Novel. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of She’s the One, dir. Mae Czarina Cruz (ABS-CBN Film Productions & Star Cinema, 2013).

Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral [The Young General]: The History Behind the Movie. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Regarding Goyo: Ang Batang Heneral, dir. Jerrold Tarog (TBA Studios, Artikulo Uno Productions, & Globe Studios, 2018); containing “an interview with Isagani Giron” (cover description).

Gracio, Jerry B. Bagay Tayo [We’re Compatible]. Pasay City: Visprint. On the scriptwriter’s professional experience and intense personal relationship with Raymond Reña, nicknamed “Pitbull”; accompanied by a simultaneously published book of poetry titled Hindi Bagay [Incompatible].

Icabandi, Arlo. Double Twisting Double Back: The Novel. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of Double Twisting Double Back, dir. Joseph Abello (Cinema One Originals, #TeamMSB, & Black Maria Pictures, 2018).

Kim Young-woo, ed. Centennial Anniversary of the Philippine Cinema: Cinema, as a Response to the Nation. Busan: Busan International Film Festival. Retrospective volume, with Korean translations.

Lapus, John. Pang MMK [For (the television program) Maalaala Mo Kaya / Would You Remember]: The Original Screenplay. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Screenplay of Pang MMK, dir. John Lapus (Cinema One Originals, 2018).

Lasar, Charmaine. The Hows of Us: The Novel. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of The Hows of Us, dir. Cathy Garcia-Molina (ABS-CBN Film Productions & Star Cinema, 2018).

Ner, Sonia P., Louise Arianne C. Ferriols, and Angelo J. Aguinaldo. Filming in the Philippines. [Pasig City]: Film Development Council of the Philippines.

Olgado, Benedict Salazar, ed. Cinema and the Archives in the Philippines. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 15, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Bliss Cua Lim, “Fragility, Perseverance, and Survival in State-Run Philippine Archives”; Bernadette Rose Alba Patino, “From Colonial Policy to National Treasure: Tracing the Making of Audiovisual Heritage in the Philippines”; Rosemarie O. Roque, “Artsibo at Sineng Bayan: Pagpapanatili ng Kolektibong Alaala at Patuloy na Kolektibong Pagsalungat sa Kasinungalingan at Panunupil [Archive and National Cinema: Preserving Collective Memory and the Continuing Collective Resistance against Lies and Repression]”; Nick Deocampo, “Envisioning a Rhizomic Audio-Visual Archiving for the Future.”

Sycip, Rinka. Miss Granny. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Screenplay of Miss Granny, dir. Joyce Bernal (Viva Films & N2 Productions, 2018), remake of Soo-sang-han geun-yeo, dir. Dong-hyuk Hwang (Yeinplus Entertainment & CJ Entertainment, 2014); also “with lots of scenes not found in the movie, and several photos from the movie itself” (Viva Books website).

Villamor, Irene Emma. Meet Me in St. Gallen. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Screenplay of Meet Me in St. Gallen, dir. Irene Emma Villamor (Spring Films & Viva Films, 2018).

———. Sid & Aya (Not A Love Story). Pasig City: VRJ Books. Screenplay of Sid & Aya (Not A Love Story), dir. Irene Emma Villamor (Viva Films & N2 Productions, 2018).

Zyrus, Jake. I Am Jake. Mandaluyong City: Anvil Publishing. Transition account of the former Charice Pempengco.


Arriola, Joyce L. Pelikulang Komiks [Comics Films]: Toward a Theory of Filipino Film Adaptation. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Bolisay, Richard. Break It to Me Gently: Essays on Filipino Film. Makati City: Everything’s Fine. Compiled primarily from author’s blog, Lilok Pelikula.

Chuaunsu, Jen, and Katherine Labayen. Isa Pa, With Feelings [Once More, with Feelings]: The Original Screenplay. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Screenplay of Isa Pa, With Feelings, dir. Prime Cruz (Black Sheep & APT Entertainment, 2019). Includes “interviews with cast and crew, and exclusive content inside” (cover description).

Cielo, Carlo. White AF. [Pasig City]: Shonenbat Collective. A “loose account of the current ‘whiteness’ in Pinoy politics and culture” (product self-description); available at Shonenbat Collective on Facebook.

Coenen, Michael. The Apocalypse of Marlon Brando: Death and Retribution in the Philippine Jungle. St. Paul, MN: Ex Nihilo Media. Fiction “inspired by real events” (back cover), specifically the making of Francis [Ford] Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979).

David, Joel. Millennial Traversals: Outliers, Juvenilia, & Quondam Popcult Blabbery. Book edition. Quezon City: Amauteurish Publishing. Also available online as editions of UNITAS: Semi-Annual Peer-Reviewed International Online Journal of Advanced Research in Literature, Culture, and Society: Part 1 (Traversals within Cinema) in vol. 88, no. 1 (May 2015) and Part 2 (Expanded Perspectives) in vol. 89, no. 1 (May 2016). More information at the Ámauteurish! website.

Del Mundo, Clodualdo Jr., and Shirley Lua, eds. Direk [Director]: Essays on Filipino Filmmakers. Critical Voices series. Eastbourne, East Sussex: Sussex Academic Press.

Dhar, Nirmal. Bhin Desher Cinema [Cinema from Foreign Countries]. Howrah, India: Sahajpaath Publishers. In Bengali, for the Cinema Federation’s International Film Festival; 101 movies from countries outside India, including Posas [Shackled], dir. Lawrence Fajardo (Quantum Films & Cinemalaya Foundation, 2012).

Gacoscos, Blaise C. Just a Stranger. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of Just a Stranger, dir. Jason Paul Laxamana (Viva Films, 2019).

Guillermo, Alice. Frisson: The Collected Criticism of Alice Guillermo. Ed. Patrick D. Flores & Roberto G. Paulino. Quezon City: Philippine Contemporary Art Network. “The Walking Tall Syndrome”; “National Identity and the Artist”; “The Many Faces of Censorship”; “Rejecting the Anti-Women in Art and Media”; “Book-Burning in the 20th Century,” on the censorship of the Isip Pinoy [Pinoy Mentality] TV program. Available at the Philippine Contemporary Art Network website.

Hanna, Monica, and Rebecca A. Sheehan, eds. Border Cinema: Reimagining Identity through Aesthetics. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. José B. Capino, “Filipinos at the Border: Migrant Workers in Transnational Philippine Cinema.”

Icabandi, Arlo. Clarita: Hanggang Saan Ka Kayang Dalhin ng Iyong Pananampalataya? [How Far Can Your Faith Take You?]. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of Clarita, dir. Derick Cabrido (Black Sheep, Purple Pig, & Clever Minds, 2019).

Jadaone, Antoinette. Alone/Together. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Screenplay of Alone/Together, dir. Antoinette Jadaone (Black Sheep & Project 8 Corner San Joaquin Projects, 2019).

Keppy, Peter. Tales of Southeast Asia’s Jazz Age: Filipinos, Indonesians and Popular Culture, 1920-1936. Singapore: National University of Singapore Press.

Lacap, Iris. Barcelona: A Love Untold. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of Barcelona: A Love Untold, dir. Olivia M. Lamasan (ABS-CBN Film Productions & Star Cinema, 2016).

Lasar, Charmaine. Hello, Love, Goodbye: The Novel. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Novelization of Hello, Love, Goodbye, dir. Cathy Garcia-Molina (Star Cinema, 2019).

Lim, Michael Kho. Philippine Cinema and the Cultural Economy of Distribution. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan.

Malanum, Ash M. Unforgettable. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of Unforgettable, dirs. Perci Intalan & Jun Robles Lana (Viva Films & Ideafirst Co., 2019).

Mique, Benedict. MOMOL Nights: The Original Screenplay. Quezon City: ABS-CBN Publishing. Screenplay of MOMOL Nights, dir. Benedict Mique (Dreamscape Digital & Lonewolf Films, 2019); MOMOL is the anagram for “make-out make-out lang” or engaging in “merely” non-penetrative sexual activity.

Promkhuntong, Wikanda, and Bertha Chin, eds. Fandom and Cinephilia in Southeast Asia. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 16, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Richard Bolisay, “‘Yes, You Belong to Me!’ Reflections on the JaDine [James Reid & Nadine Lustre] Love Team Fandom in the Age of Twitter and in the Context of Filipino Fan Culture”; Leticia Tojos, “Empowering Marginalized Filipinos Through Participatory Video Production.”

Vera, Rody. Two Women as Specters of History: Lakambini [Noblewoman] and Indigo Child. Ed. Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil. Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press. Screenplays of Lakambini, dir. Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil & Jeffrey Jeturian (unfinished); and Indigo Child, dir. Ellen Ongkeko-Marfil (Erasto Films, 2017).

Viva Films. Miracle in Cell No. 7. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Regarding the production of Miracle in Cell No. 7, dir. Nuel C. Naval (Viva Films, 2019), remake of 7-beon-bang-ui seon-mul, dir. Hwan-kyung Lee (Fineworks & CL Entertainment, 2013).

Yap, Darryl. Jowable [Lover Material]. Pasig City: VRJ Books. Novelization of #Jowable, dir. Darryl Yap (Viva Films & VinCentiments, 2019). Based on videos first posted on Facebook; “jowa” is a contraction of “jowawa,” originally gay lingo for asawa or spouse, with the first sound replaced by “j-” (sometimes “sh-”) as a pseudo-French affectation from the 1970s.

[as of May 2020]

Bolisay, Richard, ed. Daang Dokyu: A Festival of Philippine Documentaries. Philippines [city unkn.]: FilDocs. A “DokBook” for the eponymous film festival; available as an Issuu digital file at the Daang Dokyu website.

Capino, José B. Martial Law Melodrama: Lino Brocka’s Cinema Politics. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Dalisay, Butch. A Richness of Embarrassments and Other Easy Essays. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, 2020. “Couple, Clan, and Country” is a review of Dekada ’70, dir. Chito Roño (Star Cinema, 2002); “Learning from Lino” is an account of the author’s scriptwriting experience with Lino Brocka.

David, Joel. Authoring Auteurs: The Comprehensive Pinas Film Bibliography. Original digital edition. Quezon City: Ámauteurish Publishing. Available exclusively at the Ámauteurish! website.

David, Joel, and Joyce Arriola, eds. Film Criticism in the Philippines. Special issue of UNITAS: Semi-Annual Peer-Reviewed International Online Journal of Advanced Research in Literature, Culture, and Society, vol. 93, no. 1. Manila: University of Santo Tomas.

Deyto, Epoy. The Years of Permanent Midnight and Other Unedited Essays. 2018 (1st edition). Pasig City: TollidBilly & Shonenbat Collective. Available at the author’s Missing Codec blog; new issue includes an additional essay.

Gimenez-Maceda, Teresita, Amado Anthony G. Mendoza III, and Galileo S. Zafra, eds. Bien! Bien! Alagad ng Sining, Anak ng Bayan [Art’s Adherent, the Nation’s Offspring]. Festschrift for Bienvenido L. Lumbera. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Sentro ng Wikang Filipino. Roland B. Tolentino, “Desire, Neoliberalism, Hollywood, and Asian Cinemas”; Romulo P. Baquiran Jr, “Pagtagos ng Mitiko at Modernidad sa mga Piling Metasineng Tula/Sugidanon [Infusion of Myth and Modernity in Selected Metafilmic Poetry / Panay Epics].”

Grant, Paul Douglas, ed. Vernacular and Regional Cinemas in the Philippines. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 17, no. 2. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines.

Isla, Veronica L. The Face of Urban Poverty in the Cinema of [Lino] Brocka. Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press.

Jacobo, Jaya, ed. Nora [Aunor]. Special issue of Bikol Studies: Perspectives & Advocacies, issue no. 1. Naga City: Ateneo de Naga University.

Kung, Kaby Wing-Sze, ed. Reconceptualizing the Digital Humanities in Asia: New Representations of Art, History and Culture. Digital Culture and Humanities series no. 2 (Challenges and Developments in a Globalized Asia). Singapore: Springer Nature. Jose Gutierrez III, “Cinematic Contemplation Online: The Art and Philosophy of Life-world Series (2017)”; regarding Life-world Series, dir. Joni Gutierrez (Hong Kong Baptist University, 2017).

Labiste, Ma. Diosa, ed. Duterte and Disinformation. Special issue of Plaridel: A Philippine Journal of Communication, Media, and Society, vol. 17, no. 1. Quezon City: College of Mass Communication [of the] University of the Philippines. Adjani Guerrero Arumpac, “Regenerative Documentary: Posthuman Art in the Context of the Philippine Drug War”; Carlo Gabriel “Choy” Pangilinan, “Mula kay GMA Hanggang kay Duterte: Kritika sa Ilang Dokumentaryong Politikal at Pagmamapa sa Tunguhin ng Dokumentaryo sa Panahong Pinapaslang ang Politikal [From (Philippine Presidents Gloria Macapagal Arroyo) to (Rodrigo Roa) Duterte: A Critique of Selected Political Documentaries and a Mapping of Documentary Trends during the Slaughter of Political (Participants)].”

Lacuesta, Angelo Rodriguez (as Sarge Lacuesta), and Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta. Walking the City of Literature: A Film and Literary Guide to Quezon City. Quezon City: Office of the City Mayor.

Lee, Ricky. Kulang na Silya at Iba Pang Kuwentong Buhay [Missing Chairs and Other Life Stories]: Essays on Life and Writing. Quezon City: Philippine Writers Studio Foundation. Reminiscences and lessons by the country’s premiere scriptwriter.

Lico, Gerard. PA(ng)LABAS: Architecture + Cinema – Projection of Filipino Space in Film. 2nd ed. Quezon City: Arc Lico International Services. “A new essay tracing the development and decline of Filipino cinema houses, referred to in this book as Popcorn Palaces, is the main highlight of this book and features rare archival images” (author’s Facebook announcement).

Lim, Noel F., Joey Agbayani, and David Hontiveros. Hotel Purgatorio. Los Angeles: Dizzy Emu Publishing. Unproduced filmscript.

Peterson, Andrea L., Gaspar A. Vibal, Christopher A. Datol, and Nicanor A. Lajom. Fifty Shades of Philippine Art: Philippine Cinematic Art. 50 Shades of Philippine Art series. Quezon City: Vibal.

Renske, David. Cirio H. Santiago: Unbekannter Meister des B-Films [Unknown Master of B-Films]. Birkenfeld, Germany: Creepy*Images. “Unlike our other publications this book is very text-heavy and therefore in German language only! But we are already discussing the release of an English version as well” (Creepy*Images website announcement).

Sollano, Francis, and Jose Mari B. Cuartero, eds. Interdisciplinarity in the Philippine Academia: Theory, History, and Challenges. Forum of Kritika Kultura, nos. 33 & 34. Quezon City: Department of English [of the] Ateneo de Manila University, 2020. Louie Jon A. Sánchez, “Ilang Eksplorasyon sa Pag-Aaral ng Kulturang Popular sa Filipinas [Some Explorations in the Study of Popular Culture in the Philippines].”

Vibal, Gaspar A., and Dennis S. Villegas. Philippine Cinema: 1897-2020. Ed. Teddy Co. Quezon City: Vibal Foundation. A “lavishly illustrated art book [that] not only provides a dazzling retrospective of over a hundred years of Philippine cinema…. The volume also boldly looks at the seamier side of the industry” (cover description).

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