tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44175700290416006602024-02-08T03:47:43.560-08:00EncantosThis is another unofficial site for Lav Diaz, "...the great Filipino poet of cinema." (Cinema du reel, Paris).santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-45859636910686938722010-12-20T11:37:00.000-08:002010-12-20T11:42:32.431-08:00Melancholia di lav Diaz<span style="font-weight:bold;">di Michele Faggi </span><br /><br />Il cinema di lav diaz è un fiume in piena, i 450 minuti di <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span> restituiscono un rapporto complesso con il concetto di durata, costituito da una serie di piani sequenza il film del regista filippino complica e disassembla il tempo del racconto con quello di una visione che non è semplicemente materializzazione del tempo nello spazio dell’inquadratura quanto accumulazione di punti di vista capaci di rivelare una relazione intima e allo stesso tempo storica con la cultura delle filippine. Se rimangono tracce di cinema documentario in Melancholia, queste emergono dall’ordito di relazioni che legano i personaggi del film, sempre in bilico tra verità e performance, simulazione e partecipazione. E’ un vortice che non punta verso il basso, ma è al contrario ricco di aperture; la tentazione è quella di considerare questa percezione del tempo come flusso lineare solo per la persistenza colossale e ipnotica delle inquadrature o al contrario di leggerla come un racconto a ritroso; il movimento è in verità molto più complesso e anche quando si riavvolge su se stesso aggiunge elementi centrifughi che non chiudono mai le possibilità della visione rilanciandola in avanti. Diaz ci presenta tre individui alla ricerca di se stessi e a poco a poco ci impedisce una completa immedesimazione allontanandosi dal loro ruolo, rivelandocelo da un angolatura ambigua situata tra il vero e il falso, stratificando una storia di dolore che esce continuamente dai confini della finzione e penetra forme di ricerca più intime. Una prostituta, una suora che raccoglie fondi per i poveri deambulando senza posa per le strade remote di Sagada minacciate dalla natura , un magnaccia, tre visioni estreme sulle filippine soggette ad improvvisa mutazione nel gioco di ruolo concepito da un regista sperimentale, un insegnante e una donna che non regge il peso emotivo della simulazione, uccidendosi. Il centro della ricerca è quello su due corpi rimossi, “missing” che a poco a poco erode tutti i piani del racconto e riconduce alla verità della performance, immersa in una relazione estrema, intima e dolorosa con la terra, la natura e il dolore. Diaz filma in video e in bianco e nero con pochissimi mezzi, microfonando gli ambienti con un approccio diretto senza cancellare le imperfezioni del suono causate dalle intemperie, ma al contrario accentuandole in primo piano proprio quando il rigore del tempo sembra restituirci uno sguardo immobile ed estenuante. Dopo le nove ore di <span style="font-style:italic;">Death in the land of Encantos,</span> menzione speciale nella sezione Orizzonti a Venezia 64, Lav Diaz costruisce il suo cinema estenuante e d’impatto, potente e riflessivo; il ritorno alla terra natale del poeta Benjamin August nella terra distrutta dal tifone Reming viene quasi completamente interiorizzato nel processo di ricerca affrontato da Alberta, Julian e Rina in Melancholia; il titolo non è casuale e si riferisce a questa ricerca che costruisce un testo intimo e fortemente politico; nel parlare di Sagada, Diaz dice <span style="font-style:italic;">“…quando ci sono stato, per me tutto era tristezza; l’ambiente non ha offerto vero sollievo, ma ho avuto tempo per confrontarmi con questa depressione. In quel momento e in quel luogo ho compreso che non c’era una vera cura per la malinconia. Questa è la verità. Sai, ho letto Freud e, nel brano che dedica al lutto, dice che la libido è la cura per la malinconia. Uno studio offre l’uso clinico del suono e del movimento come strumenti psicologici per curarla. E, si, io ho provato tutto questo. La mia pratica del suonare la chitarra è fondata giusto sulla creazione di pattern sonori e di semplice rumore, mentre immagino movimenti, e lo faccio per curare me stesso da questa tristezza che mi sta uccidendo. Certo, la medicina moderna ha inventato il prozac, il litio e tutti questi prodotti chimici, e gli psichiatri, per bilanciare il triste mistero pieno di sofferenza che è la nostra esistenza, ma ci si risveglia sempre per scoprire che non c’è davvero cura. Alla fine, si deve affrontarla a modo proprio. Quindi si, Freud ha fallito…”</span><br /><br />Ovvio e anche scontato, per chi si trovi a vivere questa esperienza visiva, riferirsi, anche superficialmente, al cinema di Straub-Huillet, a quello infinito di Bela Tarr, alla persistenza crudele del cinema di Pedro Costa, alle sculture temporali Tarkovskjane, alla storia selvaggia di Julio Bressane, in verità nel cinema di Lav Diaz c’è un movimento partecipativo e per improvvisa collisione, raggelante, che incolla i personaggi dentro una cornice naturale eccessiva nel suo uscire dai margini dello schermo, mentre percezione visiva e auditiva vengono travolte. Melancholia è stato concepito e sviluppato in un periodo di tempo piuttosto breve, considerando la sua durata; Diaz si è recato a Sagada senza sceneggiatura, senza storia, senza una mappa precisa del posto, da solo con i tre attori e la troupe ha penetrato il dolore e la solitudine del luogo, scrivendo di notte e sviluppando una ricerca che invece di procedere in avanti o riavvolgersi attorno ai segni della memoria, si infila nel non tempo di una percezione intima e solitaria.<br /><br />Pubblicato il 8 settembre, 2008<br />In Venezia-65, nuove illusioni, orizzonti venezia 65, recensionisantiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-66639724798879973192010-12-16T12:22:00.000-08:002010-12-16T14:42:14.047-08:00Avenue of Broken Dreams<span style="font-weight:bold;">Batang West Side – Lav Diaz</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">By Etchie</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> "... it is the epic scope, the undaunted ambition, and the artistic integrity of Batang West Side that beacons the brave and<br /> independent spirit that relentlessly ignites this new generation of Filipino filmmakers."</span><br /> -- Francis "Oggs" Cruz<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"A curiously oblique film that builds almost imperceptibly, Lav Diaz's five-hour "Batang West Side" -- at once deadly serious and howlingly absurd -- is a masterpiece."</span><br />-- Ronnie Scheib, Variety<br /><br />Brutally frank and mercilessly honest, Lav Diaz’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang West Side</span> (2001) is a searing indictment at the Filipino diaspora culture- -a culture of indifference and ignorance. Likewise, at the very shadow of it lies a more sinister superimposition that is practically the representation of our social cancer. As we realize whether the decision to leave justifies the necessity, cognizant of the eventual degradation of the Filipino morals and ideals, or are we simply a gathered bunch insensitive to all of it, deprived of perception by the lure of an erstwhile fantasy of a greener pasture?<br /><br />B<span style="font-style:italic;">atang West Side</span> starts out with a fatal shooting of a Filipino teenager, Hanzel Harana (Yul Servo), on a whiteout-drenched West Side Avenue in Jersey City. A Filipino-American detective, Juan Mijares (Joel Torre) is dispatched to the scene of the crime and starts a tooth and nails crusade to find out who killed the hapless youth. His investigation sends him to interview a cornucopia of characters–from Hanzel’s mother, Lolita (Gloria Diaz), Dolores, the girlfriend (Priscilla Almeda), the grandfather, Lolo Abdon (Ruben Pizon), to his hard-luck friends and even former “bosses”. Each has their own picture of what Hanzel’s life is before his carefree life is cut short on a cold pavement in a place he is not supposed to be. The film is not so much a police procedural than as a run-of-the-mill formulaic melodrama, but the true mystery reveals not the who but on the circumstances. It is not a crime-thriller where you are treated to a plethora of the conventional recipe that identifies it as one, rather transcending into an effective character sketch and at the same time portraying a situational image of a community of minorities struggling to find its lost identity.<br /><br />Contemplative in its aesthetic and intrinsic interpretation, Lav Diaz deftly illustrates a young man’s gradual deconstruction as he helplessly wrestles through a familial dysfunction to the unavoidable immersion into a world of substance abuse. The social relevancy also indicates the necessity of the Filipino displacement as the ultimate truckstop to a life after poverty. Yet the film’s concrete lefthook lands a powerful punch towards the perennial predicament that afflicts the contemporary Filipino youth: shabu (or crystal meth–or as they casually call it, poor man’s cocaine). Diaz’s static camera shots construe a meditative interplay of the bleak snow-blanketed milieu and an individual disoriented by a profound shock, allowing us a kind of voyeuristic verisimilitude as we witness an inescapable and tragic transformation.<br /><br />Unrestrained by obligations by a production studio contract, Lav Diaz exercises such a given liberty through this film, with a running time of five hours–a complete detachment from the Godardian experimentation of <span style="font-style:italic;">Burger Boys</span> (1998) to the mainstream sensibilities of S<span style="font-style:italic;">erafin Geronimo: Kriminal ng Baryo Concepcion </span>(1999) and <span style="font-style:italic;">Hubad sa Ilalim ng Buwan </span>(2000). In <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang West Side</span>, Diaz captures the nitty-gritty survivalist instincts of his migrant compatriots and expatriates alike, with its Darwinian kill-or-be-killed philosophy at heart, in the middle of the urban battlefield of a distant western city.<br /><br />The dramatis personnae, who fundamentally supports the films’ near-fluid narrative, centers on Mijares. His own personal battles aside, likewise, he has a tendency to collapse, like Harana. He constantly dreams of his sick mother (played by Angel Aquino) who, at the beginning of the film, is in a state of coma, however he tends to avoid discussing it with his psychiatrist, frightened of opening up his true self and uncover skeletons tucked undisturbed in his closet. He harbors a terrible secret and as he does away with it in front of a documentary filmmaker’s camera near the end, we feel a sense of liberation. Not because he manages to release himself from the similar quicksand that has trapped and ultimately eaten up Hanzel Harana, but we are to discern a freedom from the nightmarish reality that is supposedly a prelude to a better dream.<br /><br />There is Lolita, Hanzel’s mother, who escapes an impoverished life in the Islands–deserting a husband and four kids–and marries a paraplegic, trapped in her own mansion of riches. She brings Hanzel from the Philippines and prods him to live with her, her husband and her lover, Bartolo (Arthur Acuna)–the personification of malevolence in the film, suffocating with opportunity his sinister love affair with Lolita. Exactly Lolita’s methods are vivid examples of the inherent Filipino tendency to rescue and resuscitate the dying hope of her family swimming in destitution back home. From here we are forced to realize whether the judgment she makes precipitates Hanzel’s early demise and leaving a relentless quandary on the morality of decision. Lolo Abdon, who, we come to know as the traditional, stick-in-the-mud grandfather, the only paternal figure Hanzel looks up to, subtly wondering if his betrayal of his grandson’s trust and friendship could have been a catalyst to such a tragedy. And then there is Dolores, whose acceptance and compassion towards Hanzel is, unusually, perceived from a Filipino girl born and reared in the west. It is through her that belies the notion of the disaffected youth, a contradiction versus the tight upbringing of Filipino children back home. Her attitude towards Hanzel, while at times, subservient, is sufficient to say of the kind of guidance she is attempting to bestow however unreciprocated that may be.<br /><br />In retrospect, <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang West Side</span> may be Lav Diaz’s own take at Wilfred Owen’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Anthem for Doomed Youth</span>, and possibly a sort of auto-da-fe. His belief that the Filipino society represented by the temporarily displaced youth–the Hanzel Haranas of the world, would rather barter a future of happiness yet bound by poverty to a promise of existence marred by definite uncertainty, somehow will always be a question that incessantly resonates within us.<br /><br />From the Blog, <span style="font-style:italic;">Brainstorms From The Shower</span>, November 24, 2010santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-13476459204901893292010-07-26T19:30:00.000-07:002010-07-26T19:35:28.728-07:00Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino (Evolution of a Filipino Family)<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Francis "Oggs" Cruz</span><br /><br />It was Dec. 17, 2004, an hour before midnight. The sun seemed like a distant memory. The black-and-white images on-screen — images of the families of a farmer and a miner struggling through the torturous passage of languorous time — felt more immediate, more real. The nearly 12 hours I spent inside the aging Cine Adarna theater at the University of the Philippines, watching "Ebolusyong ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino" felt like a lifetime. The theater is named after the mythical, elusive Adarna bird, a creature whose songs can cure many illnesses and induce anyone to sleep. As director Lav Diaz painstakingly created a cinematic universe with a heartbreaking resemblance to reality, there were times when the movie had an Adarna-like effect, even lulling me to sleep.<br /><br />But the movie also cured me of the misconception of what cinema can be. The movie's official 10-hour running time kept growing because Diaz practices the do-it-yourself independent filmmaking style that he preaches. The production of every Diaz film typically lasts up until the moment that it is projected. The director was still finalizing post-production on "Ebolusyon" on the day of the Adarna screening, so he kept traveling via taxicab from Cubao, where he was editing, back to the campus every few hours, delivering another section of the film, then getting in the cab and going back home.<br /><br />Unsurprisingly, there were many walkouts. But for the hardy few that spent half a day in the darkness of Diaz's vision, this was a life-changing theatrical experience — a 12-hour moment that defined cinema as not only pleasurable but also prolonged and painful; an experience that, despite its aches, you long for, search for, live for and love, not because it gives you pleasure, as most films do, but because it defines you.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From the site <span style="font-weight:bold;">Film Salon. Slide Show: The movie experience I can't forget</span> moderated by <span style="font-weight:bold;">Matt Zoller Seitz</span></span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-64023147935180160102010-07-26T18:07:00.000-07:002010-07-26T18:10:04.031-07:00Evolucao de Uma Familia Filipina<span style="font-weight:bold;">Por Fabricio Duque</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Apresentação</span><br /><br />Conhecer o Cinema Filipino necessita-se de tempo. Há a preparação prévia do espectador. Nesse filme em questão, a duração é de 643 minutos, traduzidos em 10 horas e 43 minutos, divididos em 12 fitas mini-dv (mídia digital). A maratona começou às dez horas da manhã, no CCBB RJ, terminando 21 horas e 45 minutos, com intervalo de 40 minutos para almoço e 20 para o lanche, totalizando uma hora (sem exceder o tempo). Os organizadores não atrasaram a exibição, possibilitando uma viagem cinematográfica única, sem percalços e sem irritabilidades. Lav Diaz é o diretor desta epopéia. Na mostra, há outros dois filmes. "Melancolia", por exemplo, possui 441 minutos. É o cineasta dos épicos. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">A opinião</span><br /><br />O Cinema Filipino distancia-se do estilo cinematográfico comercial. Escolhe-se o alternativo, o independente. A experimentação pulula em cada mudança de cena, enquadramento, camera, enfim, em toda parte técnica, em interpretação e narrativa. O diretor privilegia planos longos, respeitando o tempo narrado. Objetiva-se o dia-a-dia real, com ações naturais. A camera aguarda, espera. Ora comportando-se como personagem, ora como observadora, deixando os personagens longes, quase como borrões de imagem, por causa do posicionamento da camera: de frente ao sol. <br /><br />Há silêncios, não havendo a necessidade de utilizar o recurso da música para compor o trama apresentada. Com isso, o espectador absorve e questiona o valor do sentimento, com sutilezas aprofundadas das interpretações. Há a busca do amadorismo quando realiza a interação metalinguística. Comporta-se como um DOGMA 95, já que a iluminação é natural, muitas vezes escura, com sombras, com reflexo do fogo ou da luz da lanterna dos mineradores. <br /><br />A saga da pobre família Gallardo, que vive em uma comunidade rural das filipinas. Sua trajetória serve como metáfora da história do país durante a imposição da lei marcial pelo presidente Ferdinand Marcos e o crescimento da atividade guerrilheira, entre 1971 e 1987. Enquanto as economias vão acabando, a família Gallardo, lentamente, se separa. O filme começou a ser feito em 1993, sendo realizado durante dez anos até ficar pronto.<br /><br />A parte inicial da família vai aos guerrilheiros, que intercala imagens de arquivo de guerra contra o imperialismo filipino. Há digressões em saltos de narrativa, que explicam os integrantes da família. Entre sonhos, epifanias, realidades, futuros e passados, conta-se a história de uma dominação ditatorial. A trama não se apresenta de forma linear. <br /><br />Demora-se um tempo para que se possa concatenar e juntar as peças de tudo. Leia-se algumas horas. Mas a lentidão é válida e extremamente necessária para o desenrolar de todas as questões. São várias histórias dentro de histórias que se juntam. Uma delas é de Ray, o bebê das formigas, encontrado "supostamente" em Manila. Outra é a mãe que não aceita a filha. "Ela trouxe má sorte, nunca poderei perdoá-la", ela diz.<br /><br /><br />Os personagens são retratados em seus crescimentos, erros e acertos. Há a humanização deles, os descrevendo como ingênuos naturais. Sofrem as mazelas da crueldade do mundo, das fofocas dos membros da própria comunidade e precisam lutar pelo pedaço de terra e trabalho, dentro de uma sociedade maior que dita as regras, favorecendo os próprios interesses. É a lei dos mais fortes. Mostrando que o trabalho permanece presente. Sem ele não se vive. <br /><br />O rádio é um elemento constante. Por ele passam-se todas as histórias. Uns ouvem, outros participam. "400 pesos", é o seu preço. Os programas deste veículo abordam desejos, anseios, fornecendo a percepção que os problemas são iguais em qualquer família. A novela dramatiza a vida real. A conversa é quase narrada, brega, clichê, folhetinesca. É uma crítica a banalização do que se acontece no cotidiano. Entre uma escutada e outra, diz-se "O alho está ficando caro demais". Há o realismo conhecido, que busca a fantasia para alienar-se. "Qual o problema em ouvir histórias", diz-se sobre a imposição do "possível" certo.<br /><br />É um filme político, que utiliza a metáfora para abrandar e folhear o que se quer transmitir. A cegueira de um, a ‘mudice’ de outro, o patriarca autoritário, a prisão real, as regras carcerárias, a busca por um mundo melhor e de novo o rádio. Há também a guerra, a violência, a obediência e a ordem. As vítimas e os sobreviventes não visualizam o futuro. As consequências: mortos e feridos. Em contra ponto, há a simplicidade das crianças brincando na praia e pulando corda, vivenciando o que se pode viver. Há o existencialismo sobre a vida de um inseto. Há referências que respeitam quem está do outro lado da tela. <br /><br />Há profundidade nos personagens, que sofrem, expressando raiva e descontentamento de uma vida sem perspectiva. Expurga-se cortando madeiro, por exemplo. Não parece ficção. Os diálogos da cena entre a neta e a sua avó são reais, naturais, sem encenação. Eles acontecem por si só, como na própria vida, que segue. A colheita, a lama, lavrar a terra. Trabalho rural. "Não são burros, apenas cresceram em um mundo diferente", diz-se sobre jovens que não pensam como os mais velhos. De novo, repito, a construção da narrativa fornece realismo aos diálogos. Há cenas que acontecem. A dança e o canto em volta da fogueira. Há mineração e escavação. O longa passeia por todos os elementos épicos e destrincha formas de sobrevivência filipina. <br /><br />O objetivo, questionado no próprio filme, é redescobrir o que é ser filipino. Quebrar os estereótipos. Há interação com um diretor de cinema fictício. Há making of do programa de rádio. Há experimentação de imagem em imagem. "Somos todos filipinos", diz-se em cenas de revoltas à ditadura, em meio a crises existenciais, culpas e resignações sofridas.<br /><br />O recomeço. Espera-se lentamente a vida voltar ao normal. "Os tempos mudaram. Ficaram mais escuros", sobre a metafísico do escurecimento do dia às dezoito horas. Infere-se o lado sombrio do ser humano, cada vez mais embrutecido, em meio a cenas simétricas de imagens. Recomeçar vendendo pudim de soja. Há epifanias silenciosas. Há catarses melancólicas. Há a explicação explícita da proibição dos filmes e do Festival de Cinema do ditador. "Uma ditadura cinematográfica. Do roteiro à narrativa. O filme do Scorsese 'Última tentação de Cristo', foi proibida também". Busca-se a "liberdade dos cineastas". Há uma cena que pode ser considerada como a morte mais longa da história do cinema. Tudo pelo fim da militarização.<br /><br />A vida continua. A espera também. As mesmas ações. O mesmo trabalho. É um filme de imagens, que retrata uma época, rica em seu material. "Perdas acontecem. Segue-se em frente da mesma forma. Muda-se uma coisa ou outra, mas é quase tudo igual", finaliza-se. Vale muito a pena ser visto. É um encontro sensorial em todos os aspectos. Recomendo.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">O Diretor</span><br /><br />Lavrente Indico Diaz é um premiado cineasta independente que nasceu em 30 de dezembro de 1958. Ele atua em diversas funções concomitantemente, como diretor, roteirista, produtor, editor, diretor de fotografia, poeta, compositor, ator e diretor de arte. É especialmente conhecido pelo comprimento de seus filmes, alguns dos quais chegam a durar até onze horas. Após trabalhar durante anos para a principal empresa produtora das Filipinas, a Regal Films, comandada por Mother Lily, Lav dirigiu em 2001 Batang West Side , divisor de águas em sua carreira e marco do cinema independente filipino. O filme foi o primeiro de sua trilogia Filipina, completada por Evolução de uma Família Filipina e Heremias . Seus dois últimos longas, também épicos de longa duração, participaram, com sucesso, do Festival de Veneza. O primeiro, Death in the Land of Encantos , ganhou menção honrosa na mostra Orizzonti em 2007, e Melancolia conquistou o prêmio principal no ano seguinte. Por toda sua trajetória, Lav é considerado o pai ideológico do cinema independente filipino.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From the blog <span style="font-weight:bold;">vertentes do cinema</span>, July 15, 2010<br /></span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-50425176776853700652010-07-19T17:02:00.000-07:002010-07-19T17:05:20.403-07:00Lav Diaz: Mini-Dosier<span style="font-weight:bold;">Von Lukas Foerster</span><br /><br />Über Lav Diaz wird viel geschrieben, seine Filme werden selten gezeigt. Die zentrale Figur des neuen philippinischen Kinos – und mein Lieblingsregisseur im Gegenwartskino – stieß erst verhältnismäßig spät, mit 40 Jahren, zum Film, davor arbeitete Diaz vor allem als Journalist. Vielleicht auch deswegen ist er nicht nur der ästhetisch interessanteste, sondern auch der politisch artikulierteste Regisseur seines Landes. Seine ersten Filme entstanden innerhalb der kommerziellen Filmindustrie. Der erste Film außerhalb derselben entstand 2001 und ist heute aufgrund seiner faktischen Unsichtbarkeit so etwas wie der heilige Gral des philippinischen Gegenwartskinos: Die einzige theoretisch vorführbare Kopie des sechsstündigen Emigrantenepos Batang West Side liegt bei einem durchgeknallten Produzenten unter Verschluss. Die späteren Filme sind – zumindest im Kino, wo sie hingehören – nur minimal sichtbarer.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Naked Under the Moon</span> (1999): Ein frühes Drama um zwei Schwestern, Vergewaltigungen, Schlafwandeln, Untreue, relifiöse Verblendung und vieles mehr. Auf den ersten Blick enthält das alles nur wenige Elemente des reifen Werks. Auf den zweiten beschreibt allerdings auch Naked Under the Moon schon eine eindringliche “Evolution of a Filipino Family”, die noch in ein melodramatisches Kokon verpackt, was später zur nationalen Allegorie reifen wird.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Hesus the Revolutionary</span> (2002): Diaz’ letzte und ambitionierteste kommerzielle Arbeit ist ein politischer Actionfilm. Hesus the Revolutionary kann als Versuch betrachtet werden, im Stil eines Lino Brocka oder Chatrichalerm Yukol Genreformeln für radikale politische Kritik zu instrumentalisieren. Der als Science Fiction deklarierte Film ist leicht als Allegorie auf die Marcos-Diktatur zu lesen und ruft gleichzeitig zum Widerstand gegen die Remilitarisierung der philippinischen Innenpolitik seit dem Ende der Neunziger Jahre. Der Held, Anführer einer Rebellenorganisation, nimmt bereits die Märtyrergestalten der späteren Epen vorweg. In letzter Instanz ist Hesus the Revolutionary zwar ein sehr interessanter, aber doch ein gescheiterter Film, nach dem die radikale Abkehr vom Markt nur folgerichtig wirkt.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Evolution of a Filipino Family</span> (2004): Das Magnum Opus, mit dessen Planung und Produktion Diaz bereits vor seinen ersten Schritten in der kommerziellen Filmindustrie begann. Es gibt viel zu diesem Film zu sagen, an dieser Stelle nur die paar Sätze, die ich im Programmheft unserer Reihe verfasst habe: “Der Schlüsselfilm des Neuen Philippinischen Kinos: Ein Jahrzehnt lang arbeitete Lav Diaz an seinem magnum opus, dem elfstündigen Ebolusyon ng isang pamilyang Pilipino (Evolution of a Filipino Family). Die ältesten Aufnahmen stammen aus der Mitte der 1990er Jahre, im Laufe des Films kann man einer der Hauptfiguren buchstäblich beim Aufwachsen zusehen. Diaz entwirft eine komplexe Familienchronik, die eng mit der politischen Geschichte der Philippinen während der letzten Jahre der Marcos-Diktatur verknüpft ist. Es geht um Findelkinder und Geisteskranke, um Vergewaltigung, Mord und Rache, schließlich um eine apokalyptisch anmutende Goldsuche. Außerdem ist der Film durchsetzt von historischen Filmaufnahmen, Radio-Seifenopern und anderen historischen Artefakten. Vor allem geht es aber um ganz alltägliche Handlungen, um Mahlzeiten, um Streitgespräche, ums Warten, um Klatsch und um Liebe, kurzum darum, das Leben selbst aus den Fängen der dominanten Geschichtsschreibung zu bergen. Gegossen ist dieser Film über den Leidensweg einer ganzen Nation in kontrastreiche, digitale Schwarz-Weiß-Bilder, einzelne Einstellungen dauern nicht selten zehn Minuten. „Die Spuren der Zeit sind unauslöschlich eingetragen in das Bildmaterial und die Geschichte selbst.“ (Ekkehard Knörer).”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Heremias (Book One: The Legend of the Lizard Princess)</span> (2006): Mein Text für die Splatting Image: “Eine staubige Landstraße schlängelt sich durch spärlich bewachsenes Hügelland. Anfangs ist kaum eine Bewegung zu erkennen. Ganz langsam verdichten sich im Hintergrund einige digitale Bildpunkte zu noch nicht genauer definierbaren Gefährten, die sich der Kamera nähern. Dass es sich um Ochsenkarren handelt, ist erst nach ein paar Minuten zweifelsfrei festzustellen. Das Kamerablickfeld verlassen werden diese Ochsenkarren erst nach gut zehn Minuten. Währenddessen durchqueren einige Male Automobile die Leinwand und benötigen dazu kaum länger als dreißig Sekunden. Der Film aber wartet, bis auch der letzte der Ochsenkarren den Straßenabschnitt passiert hat. Jeder Film steht vor der Wahl, ob er sich für die Autogeschwindigkeit oder die Ochsenkarrengeschwindigkeit entscheiden möchte. Wie viele Filme die Autos wählen, wird erst klar, wenn ein Film wie Heremias daherkommt, der sich ganz und gar den Ochsenkarren verschreibt. „I survived Lav Diaz’s Heremias“ lautet der Titel eines Blogposts, das sich mit dem neunstündigen philippinischen Film beschäftigt. Nicht nur in diesem Fall scheint eine Auseinandersetzung mit Werken wie Heremiasselbstreflexive Überlegungen des Kritikers / Zuschauers automatisch mit einzuschließen. Der eigene Blick auf den Film wird plötzlich mindestens ebenso interessant wie der Film selbst. In der Tat stellt Heremias das konventionelle Rezeptionsmodell schon alleine aufgrund seiner bloßen Länge in Frage. Ein neunstündiger Film transformiert das Zeiterleben um einiges radikaler als ein klassischer, 90 bis 120-minütiger Spielfilm. Selbstverständlich setzt auch ein solcher die reale Zeit in mancher Hinsicht außer Kraft und ersetzt sie durch eine filmische. Doch in seiner Gesamtheit passt er sich ohne Probleme in die Muster des Alltagslebens ein und orientiert sich an einem Intervall, das von Schulstunden oder Universitätsvorlesungen bestens bekannt ist. Ein neunstündiger Film sprengt solche Alltagsbezüge, er lässt sich nicht ohne weiteres in die Tagesplanung integrieren, stört den Fluss der fein säuberlich segmentierten Zeit. Ein neunstündiger Film stellt per se einen Exzess dar, der irgendwie unzulässig erscheint, wohl auch, weil er beim besten Willen nicht mehr in dem Bedürfnis nach Unterhaltung aufgeht, das das Kino als seine Existenzberechtigung voraussetzt. Ein neunstündiger Film ist eine Herausforderung für das Selbstverständnis des Publikums wie des Kritikers und verlangt eine Reaktion. Leider sind in diesem speziellen Fall „Publikum“ und „Kritiker“ fast identisch. Regisseur Lav Diaz gehört zu einer Gruppe junger philippinischer Filmemacher, die seit einigen Jahren die Festivalleinwände dieser Welt mit digital gedrehten Werken jenseits aller klassischen Kategorien unsicher machen. Zunächst feierte man Diaz sowie seine Kollegen Raya Martin, Khavn und John Torres an den Rändern des Fesitvalzirkusses, in Rotterdam, Buenos Aires oder der heimischen Neugründung Cinemanila, inzwischen haben sie Venedig, Berlin und Cannes erreicht. Außerhalb dieser cinephilen Parallelwelt bleibt das Kino – abgesehen von wenigen, umso wertvolleren Ausnahmen – unsichtbar. Bevor ein deutsches Arthauskino einen philippinischen Film in sein Programm aufnimmt, läuft im Cinestar Heinz Emigholz. Und auch alternative Vertriebswege wie DVD oder Internet sind Diaz und Co bislang keine große Hilfe. Lav Diaz hat im Gegensatz zum Großteil seiner Mitstreiter eine kurze Karriere in der lokalen Filmindustrie hinter sich. Seine ersten Streifen inszenierte er für den Giganten Regal Films in den späten Neunziger Jahren. Als im Jahr 2001 dann Batang West Side erschien, ein fünfstündiges Epos über Exilphilippinos in New Jersey, war klar, wohin die Reise führt. Das philippinische Kommerzkino steckt heute in einer schweren Krise. Vielleicht war Diaz’ bewusste Entscheidung für die Ränder des Arthausghettos rückblickend karrieretechnisch nicht die schlechteste. 2004 folgte der Zehneinhalbstünder Evolution of a Filipino Family, dann Heremias und letztes Jahr schaffte es Death in the Land of the Encantos mit ebenfalls neun Stunden Dauer sogar in Venedig in den Wettbewerb. Gesehen habe ich von diesen anderen Filmen noch keinen einzigen. Selbst in Berlin sind und bleiben solche Werke faktisch unsichtbar. Heremias ist Teil eines parallelen Kinos, eines Kinos der Insider und Hippster. All denjenigen, die nicht zum auserwählten Kreis des Festival-Jetsets gehören, bleibt keine andere Möglichkeit, als auf die raren festivalfernen Screenings zu warten. Dieses Warten ist vielleicht nicht einmal die schlechteste Einübung auf einen Film wie Heremias. Irgendwann ist die erste Einstellung zu Ende. Die zweite zeigt dieselben Ochsenkarren auf einem anderen Straßenabschnitt, diesmal während der Dämmerung am späten Abend. Die Einstellung dauert so lange, dass der Einbruch der Dunkelheit nachvollzogen werden kann. Wieder nähern sich die Fahrzeuge aus dem Hintergrund, sind zunächst kaum sichtbar, wachsen dann, je näher sie der Kamera rücken, ins riesenhafte. Mit herunterhängenden Schultern sitzen die Ochsentreiber Gespenstern gleich auf ihren Karren, fast leb- und völlig bewegungslos. Heremias macht die einfachsten filmischen Mittel, die im restlichen Kino selten mehr sind als ihre eigenen Klischees, wieder in ihrer spezifischen Eigenart sichtbar. Die Großaufnahme der Ochsentreiber ist nur deshalb so furchteinflößend und monumental, weil sich der Film minutenlang auf sie vorbereitet. Analog dazu ist auch die erste Kamerabewegung des Films nur deshalb so brutal, weil sie erst nach zwei Stunden Laufzeit stattfindet. Ein kleiner Linksschwenk nur, und doch zerreißt er den filmischen Raum mit ungeheuerlicher Kraft, als handele es sich um eine der radikalsten filmischen Gesten der Kinogeschichte. Gleichzeitig setzt diese kleine Kamerabewegung in der Binnenstruktur des Films die Erzählung in Gang. Vorher lernten wir, während Futterpausen und nächtlicher Gespräche am Lagerfeuer, sehr beiläufig Heremias kennen. Heremias ist Mitglied einer Gruppe Ochsentreiber, die von Stadt zu Stadt zieht und von ihren Wagen Haushaltswaren verscherbelt. Heremias scheint sich von seinen Kollegen entfremdet zu haben. Der erwähnte kurze Schwenk genügt, um ihn von ihnen zu trennen. Er hört nicht auf die Warnungen seiner ehemaligen Gefährten und macht sich alleine auf den Weg in eine unwirtliche Bergregion. Eine weitere Stunde verfolgt der Film Heremias, wie er alleine dem Regen und der Landschaft trotzt, seinen Ochsen steile Bergwege hinauftreibt und umgefallene Bäume beseitigt. Die Kamera hat sich aus ihrer Starre befreit und ist mobil geworden. Nach der dritten Stunde sucht er Unterschlupf in einem verlassenen Bauernhaus. Einige Bewohner des nahe gelegenen Dorfes leisten ihm Gesellschaft und erzählen Geschichten aus dem zweiten Weltkrieg über einen japanischen General mit Namen Oshima. Als Heremias am nächsten Tag aufwacht, ist sein Wagen verbrannt und der Ochse verschwunden. Den Großteil des restlichen Films wird Heremias mit der Suche nach dem Schuldigen verbringen. Der zuständige Polizist macht ihm nach einigen lieblosen Routineuntersuchungen klar, dass er ohne den zusätzlichen Anreiz eines Bestechungsgeldes nicht weiter von Nutzen sein wird. Der bitterarme Heremias hat keine andere Möglichkeit, als selber in die Rolle des Ermittlers zu schlüpfen. Hinter der spröden, formalistischen Schale kommt im Laufe der Stunden eine komplexe Auseinandersetzung mit Geschichte und Sozialstruktur der Philippinen zum Vorschein. Und die Philippinen sind zuallererst ein bitterarmer, unterentwickelter Agrarstaat. Heremias durchquert mit den fahrenden Händlern und ihren Ochsenwagen die ländliche Einöde ebenso wie die Slums der Städte. Auf diesem Weg dringt nicht nur das Alltagsleben der verelendeten Massen in den Film ein, sondern auch deren oral history, in Form von Volksliedern und mystischen Legenden. Im Lauf der Zeit dringen in den Film selbst mystische Elemente ein. Von Anfang an ist Heremias in seiner Irrationalität ein sonderbarer Protagonist. Gegen Ende seines Abenteuers verwandelt sich der Held in eine Art metaphysische Erlöserfigur, in der sich soziopolitische und spirituelle Motive vermischen. Nicht verwechseln sollte man diese Wendung ins Mystische mit esoterischem Ethno-Quatsch. Von so etwas ist ein Film wie Heremias, der sein künsterisches Konzept kompromisslos wie kaum ein zweiter ausbuchstabiert, denkbar weit entfernt. Eher geht es – doch dies ist nur ein vorsichtiger Versuch meinerseits, in dem die Komplexität Diaz’ Werkes bei weitem nicht aufgeht – darum, im Sinne der postkolonialen Theorie den imaginären Selbstentwürfen der Unterdrückten ihr Recht zu lassen und sie gleichzeitig in ihrer soziopolitischen Bedingtheit sichtbar zu machen. Wie fast alle Filme des neuen philippinischen Kinos ist Heremias mit digitaler Kamera gedreht und zwar mit einer, der die Kinderkrankheiten der neuen Technik noch nicht ausgetrieben sind. In körnigem Schwarz-Weiß kommen die Bilder daher, oft dauert es eine ganze Weile, bis man sich in den spärlich beleuchteten Panoramen zurechtfindet. Vor allem eine längere Sequenz im Wald (und lang bedeutet in diesem Fall: stundenlang) stellt einen einzigen Angriff auf das Prinzip der Sichtbarkeit dar. Zwischen dem Astwerk erahnt man die Vorgänge mehr als dass man sie erkennt, sonderbar geformte Blätter verwandeln sich in Monster und geben ihre harmlose, pflanzliche Natur nur langsam Preis. Die digitalen Tapes erlauben Aufnahmen von einer Stunde Länge und damit eine Longshot-Ästhetik, die auf 35mm nicht, oder nur mit Tricks, möglich war. Hier, im Wald, nutzt Lav Diaz die neuen Möglichkeiten mit aller Konsequenz aus. Eine ganze Stunde lang beobachtet Heremias – und der Film mit ihm – eine Gruppe Jugendlicher beieinem Besäufnis, das sich langsam aber sicher in ein apokalyptisch anmutendes Horrorszenario verwandelt. Irgendwann ist auch diese nervenaufreibende Stunde zu Ende und tatsächliche findet Heremias schließlich zu einem Abschluss. Doch dann fällt der Blick auf den Untertitel: „Book One: The Legend of the Lizard Princess“. Fortsetzung folgt.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Death in the Land of Encantos</span> (2007): Aus meinem Text für die Splatting Image: “Death in the Land of the Encantos nimmt die Verwüstungen des Taifuns Durian zu Füßen des Vulkans Mayon als Ausgangspunkt. Anfang Dezember 2006 starben mehr als 1000 Menschen an den Folgen der Naturkatastrophe auf den Inseln im Umfeld des Vulkans. Nur eine Woche nach der Katastrophe begann Diaz vor Ort zu filmen, mit digitaler Kamera und minimalem Büdget: Weniger als 10000 $ kostete der neunstündige Film insgesamt. Die Zerstörung prägt den Film in jeder Hinsicht. Die Bilder zeigen eingestürzte Wellblechhütten, Trümmer, Kleidungsfetzen, aber auch umgestürzte Bäume, Flüsse, die sich neue Wege gebahnt haben, Schlamm, Dreck. Kultur und Natur sind gleichermaßen am Boden. Der Film ist dann eine einzige, delirierende und dennoch konsequente Öffnung hin auf dieses zerstörte Land. Death in the Land of the Encantos wählt, ganz im Gegensatz zu den streng strukturierten, exakt konstruierten übrigen Filmen des Regisseurs, die sich nach der Länge der einzelnen Videotapes, aus denen sie bestehen, strukturieren, dafür eine fast völlig offene Form. Ausgehend von immer wiederkehrenden Trümmerbildern in grobpixeligem Schwarz-Weiß und dem diaztypischen Antihelden Benjamin, einem Dichter und politischen Aktivisten, der aus dem russischen Exil in die Philippinen zurückgekehrt ist, unternimmt der Film Reisen in die unterschiedlichsten Richtungen und entfernt sich doch nie von seinem Anliegen. Mal bewegt sich Diaz in Richtung auf dokumentarische Formen, mal in Richtung Selbstreflexivität, einmal sogar zurück zum Vorgänger Heremias (siehe SI 74), dann wieder unternimmt er dialogreich Ausflüge in diverse Diskursfelder, vor allem in die politische Geschichte und Gegenwart der Philippinen, aber auch in die Philosophie und in die Kunstgeschichte. Er erkundet andere Räume, naheligende und weniger naheliegende, Russland besipielsweise, das freilich nicht das echte Russland ist, sondern nur die Projektion eines Russlands, ein “country built against the sky”, schließlich auch und vor allem die philippinische Hauptstadt Manila, deren bedrohlichen, düsteren und menschenfeindlichen Hochhäuser eine grundsätzlich andere, vertikale Raumorganisation etablieren. Immer wieder bewegt sich Death in the Land of the Encantos gleichzeitig hin zu den zahlreichen Frauenfiguren des Films, zu Frauen die teilweise ineinander verschwimmen und deren ontologischer Status nicht in allen Fällen gesichert ist. Diese in sich jeweils sehr unterschiedlichen Bewegungen hin zu den Frauen sind vielleicht das beeindruckendste an diesem unendlich beeindruckenden Film. Lav Diaz scheint den Versuch zu unternehmen, so viel wie nur möglich auf diese Frauen zu projizieren und doch übt er dabei in keiner Weise ungebührlich Macht über sie aus. Gleich zu Beginn schneidet Diaz von einer langen Einstellung, die sich unsicher tastend über die verwüstete Landschaft bewegt auf eine nackte Frau, die im Bett liegt. Die Kamera schwebt dann mit genau derselben Unsicherheit und Vorsicht über dem Körper diese Frau, das existentielle, chaotische Elend wird umgeschrieben auf makellose, glänzende Hautpartien. Später tauchen andere Frauen auf, Benjamins Mutter zum Beispiel, dann eine Russin, eine tote Schwester, die Ex-Freundin Catalina und noch ein paar weitere und irgendwie scheint der mythische, brutale, wunderschöne Vulkan Mayon auch mit diesen Frauen, oder zumindest mit einer der vielen Ideen von Weiblichkeit, die der Film entwirft, zu tun zu haben. (Es gibt, und bei weitem nicht nur pro forma, auch feministische Diskurse in diesem Film und wie auch in anderen Diaz-Filmen ist die einzige Figur, die einen zumindest teilweise produktiven Weltbezug errreicht, eine Frau, nämlich Benjamins Ex Catalina, verkörpert von Angeli Bayani, die ein Jahr später in Melancholia eine sehr ähnliche Rolle übernehmen wird.) Die ersten Stunden bewegt sich der Film frei durch Zeit und Raum, umkreist auf immer neuen Bahnen die reale Verwüstung, an der er sich entzündet. Doch je länger er dauert, desto mehr verlagert sich diese urwüchsige Dynamik auf Benjamin, dem im letzten Drittel dann ein Martyrium bereitet wird, das in der Filmgeschichte seinesgleichen sucht. Der eigentliche Beginn dieses Martyriums ist, nach einer längeren Passage, in der er ganz aus dem Film verschwindet, eine unglaublich intensive Szene in Manila. Zunächst führt der Film die Stadt als einen Ort der bedrohlichen, grausamen Vertikalität ein, die erste Einstellung in Manila zeigt eine Straße, die an drei Seiten von finster glänzenden Hochhäusern umgeben ist, die jegliches Leben, jede Bewegung im Keim und in ihren Schatten ersticken. Nach einer kurzen Passage mit bewegter, desorientierter Kamera durch diesen vertikalen Alptraum findet der Film Benjamin in einem Cafe, im Hintergrund vorbeifahrende Autos, auf der Tonspur Straßenlärm. Benjamin sitzt und liest, irgendwann setzt sich ein weiterer Mann zu ihm, der sich als ein Mitarbeiter der Geheimpolizei entpuppt, der Benjamin einst folterte. Es folgt ein verbitterter und unerbittlicher Schlagabtausch, Benjamin wirft seinem Peiniger seine ganze Verzweiflung und den letzten Rest an Hoffnung, der ihm noch geblieben ist, entgegen, er appeliert an einen Rest an Humanität, den er in seinem Peiniger vermutet, doch alles vergeblich. Sein Gesprächspartner macht sich nicht einmal die Mühe, auf moralische Appelle zu antworten, er bleibt stumpfes Vollzugsorgan des brutalisierten Staatsapparates und wiederholt ständig dieselben Drohungen. Als der Geheimpolizist schließlich nach einem Gespräch, das im Grunde gar keines war, verschwindet, haben sich die Lichtverhältnisse geändert. Benjamin ist nur noch eine schwarze Silhouette vor dem Hintergrund des hell erleuchteten Fensters, weiße Lichtreflektionen schimmern gespenstisch und schieben sich vor diese Silhouette. Im Grunde stirbt Benjamin bereits in dieser Einstellung, durch den restlichen Film bewegt er sich wie ein Geist. Endgültig zu diesem Gespenst wird er später (bei Lav Diaz muss so etwas immer gelesen werden als: Stunden später) in Catalinas Haus, im Wohnzimmer. Am Ende einer weiteren verstörenden Szene bewegt sich der vom Schicksal gezeichnete Benjamin zum Fenster, über sein Gesicht legt sich ein weißer, kalter Lichtstreifen wie eine Totenmaske. Noch ein letztes Aufraffen ist ihm gegönnt, in seltsam aufrechter Körperhaltung unterhält er sich mit seinem Jugendfreund und ewigen Kontahenten Teodoro und breitet vor diesem sein ganzes Martyrium aus. Am Schluss dieses Gesprächs ist nicht nur Benjamin am Ende, sondern auch Teodoro, der sich bis dahin in Indifferenz geflüchtet und damit gut gefahren ist, der aber in dieser Szene zu einem zweiten Benjamin wird und nach dessen Tod dessen Erbe antreten kann und muss. Nun ist Benjamin bereit, ganz und gar und in jeder Hinsicht zu sterben. Der Film figuriert diesen Tod multiperspektivisch und multimodal. Eine längere Passage, in der Catalina und Teodoro Benjamin gegenüber einem zynischen Reporter verteidigen, verhindert ein Abgleiten in Fatalismus, unendlich bitter und verheerend sind diese letzten Stunden dennoch. Und erst recht die allerletzte Szene, eine schreckenerregende Miniatur irgendwo zwischen ins durch und durch Finstere gewendeter homoerotischer S/M-Fantasie (die Frauen sind sehr radikal abwesend in dieser letzten Szene) und klinisch reiner Grausamkeit (an der Wand hängt ein Yuppie-Wandspiegel). Tiefschwarz und wie der gesamte Film sowohl physisch wie auch psychisch weit jenseits der Schmerzgrenze.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Melancholia</span> (2008): Im selben Text schreibe ich auch über Melancholia: “Nur ein Jahr später dreht Lav Diaz ein weiteres Epos. Melancholia ist eine Stunde kürzer als Death in the Land of the Encantos, kostete ebenfalls weniger als 10000 $ und lief ebenfalls in Venedig im Wettbewerb. In diesem neuen Film geht es nicht mehr primär um die rohe Gewalt einer Staatsmacht, welche eine Auseinandersetzung mit der eigenen Geschichte und der sozialen Gegenwart verunmöglicht. Vielmehr entwirft Diaz eine moralische Selbstbefragung der Rebellen und ihres Märtyrertums. Und wie in Koji Wakamatsus fellow masterpiece United Red Army hat auch bei Lav Diaz diese Selbstbefragung ihren Preis. Melancholia beginnt in einer philippinischen Kleinstadt. Zunächst sind da nur drei Menschen, zwei Frauen und ein Mann, die sich auf den Straßen dieser Kleinstadt durch Lav Diaz’ starre, minutenlange, grobpixelig schwarz-weißen Einstellungen bewegen, ohne erkennbares Ziel. Manchmal begegnen sie sich auf den Straßen. Zunächst scheinen sie sich nicht zu kennen, doch einmal lacht die eine Frau verhalten lachen, als sie die andere sieht. Eine der Frauen ist durch ihre Kleidung als Nonne erkennbar und bittet Passanten um Spenden für die Armen, die anderen beiden Figuren werden erst durch ihre späteren Handlungen als Prostituierte und Zuhälter identifiziert. Der Zuhälter inszeniert Live-Sex-Shows für zahlungskräftiges Publikum, die Prostituierte bricht in Anwesenheit eines ausländischen Freiers in Tränen aus. Noch später wird klar, dass die Nonne keine Nonne ist, die Prostituierte keine Prostituierte und der Zuhälter kein Zuhälter. Melancholia beginnt mit einer Charade. Drei Stunden dauert diese Charade, sie gewinnt in diesen drei Stunden eine bedrückende Eigendynamik und doch geht der Film nach dem Ende der Charade erst richtig los. Der sonderbare Anfang von Melancholia inszeniert in dieser Charade eine eigenwillige Form von Vergangenheitsbewältigung. Die Nonne Rina, der Zuhälter Julian und die Prostituierte Jenine, die eigentlich Alberta heißt, sind, das offenbart sich nach und nach, im echten Leben traumatisierte Intellektuelle, die einst in militanten linken Untergrundorganisationen tätig waren und in ihren bürgerlichen Berufen nicht glücklich zu werden vermögen. Es geht in Melancholia um ein dezidiert intellektuelles Millieu. Das ist neu im Werk des Philippinos, in den vorherigen Filmen stand die arme Landbevölkerung im Mittelpunkt. Dieses intellektuelle Millieu hat Auswirkungen auf die gesamte Ästhetik des Films. Melancholia ist bisweilen in fast schon klassisch modernistisch-selbstreflexiver Film. Und das vor allem, weil Julian und seine Mitstreiter ihr eigenes Handeln nur noch als reflexives, abgeleitetes, nicht mehr als authentisches erleben können. Erst ganz am Ende, in den wiederum äußerst intensiven letzten beiden Stunden des Films, bricht die alte, urwüchsige Lav-Diaz-Zeit wieder über Melancholia herein. Der Film findet in den Dschungel zurück. Dorthin, wo alles angefangen hat und wo Charaden nutzlos sind. Julian ist zwar ein archetypischer Lav-Diaz-Held, aber er ist auch, das stellt sich hinterher heraus, Initiator der Charade. Es ging, das führt er schließlich lang und breit aus und seine Zuhörerin Alberta möchte dem immer selbstherrlicher auftretenden Julian dabei fast an die Gurgel springen, in dieser Charade nicht darum, durch Verkleidung der Wirklichkeit zu entfliehen. Ganz im Gegenteil sucht Julian, und mit ihm Lav Diaz, in der Verkleidung die Wahrheit. Doch ob der Weg den Julian einschlägt, der Richtige ist, das lässt Lav Diaz offen. Das Verhältnis des Films zur Hauptfigur bleibt deutlich ambivalenter als in den Vorgängern. In vielem ist Benjamin eher Narzisst als Märtyrer. Melancholia ist ein Film über Menschen, die von ihrer Vergangenheit wieder und wieder heimgesucht werden und dennoch kaum in der Lage sind, etwas aus ihr oder auch nur über sie zu lernen.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Upheaval</span> (2008): Ein Nebenwerk, aber was heißt das schon bei Lav Diaz. Das größere Projekt, von dem dieser Performancefilm ursprünglich nur einen Teil darstellen sollte, scheint sich bis heute noch nicht materialiert zu haben. Ich habe darüber geschrieben: “Upheaval ist eine gefilmte Tanzperformance (der erste Teil einer geplanten 15-teiligen installativen Arbeit, wenn ich das richtig mitbekommen habe). Das Genre “gefilmte Tanzperformance” hat mich bislang noch nie um den Schlaf gebracht und wird es auch in Zukunft nicht tun. Aber Upheaval ist eine gefilmte Tanzperformance der Lav-Diaz-Art. Eine Tanzperformance, in der die meiste Zeit gar nichts performt wird. Oder falls doch, dann ist dieses Performen nicht immer unterscheidbar vom ganz normalen Straßenleben einer philippinischen Großstadt. Die statische positioniert sich am Rand eines Flusses. Das Ufer wird im unaufdringlich symmetrisch gegliederten Bildausschnitt zur Bühne, die urbane Umgebung zum Publikum. Rechts der Fluss, links eine Straße, im Hintergrund Hochhäuser. Im Vordergrund sitzt zu Beginn eine Frau im weißen Kleid, im Mittelgrund sitzt eine andere auf einem nicht näher definierbaren Gestell und liest. Die Frau im Vordergrund beginnt zu tanzen, erst dreht sie sich, dann windet sie sich, wirft sich hin und her, das wirkt nicht direkt ekstatisch, aber doch ist das ein Tanz, der nicht organisch aus den Alltagsbewegungen entspringt. Nicht allzu lange tanzt sie so. Irgendwann verschwindet sie einfach aus dem Bild. Im Mittelgrund sitzt immer noch die lesende Frau. Viel mehr als lesen wird sie während der 45 Minuten, die Upheaval andauert, nicht machen. Der Kreditsequenz nach zu urteilen, gehört sie dennoch zu den Performern. Wenige Minuten nach dem Verschwinden der Tänzerin taucht ein Mann mit Gitarrenkoffer auf und setzt sich auf dasselbe Gestell, auf dem schon die lesende Frau sitzt. Er legt sich hin und scheint einzuschlafen. Und das ist dann der Hauptteil der Performance. Sie liest, er schläft, neben ihm liegt der Gitarrenkoffer. Aber natürlich ist das nicht alles. Im Hintergrund fahren Autos über eine Brücke, vorne fahren andere Wagen auf die Kamera zu, manchmal laufen Kinder direkt an ihr vorbei und blicken auch mal scheu in ihre Richtung. Die Performance ist zu Alltag zerflossen und wird sich schlißlich aus diesem heraus wieder neu konstituieren. Denn am Ende von Upheaval passiert noch einmal etwas und zwar nicht nur in dem Sinne, in dem bei Lav Diaz ohnehin immer etwas passiert. Was da aber in diesem Fall passiert, das sei hier nicht verraten.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Butterflies Have no Memory</span> (2009): Ein Versuch in der kurzen Form, entstanden im Rahmen des Jeonju Digital Projects. Auf cargo-online schreibe ich: “Ironischerweise ist Butterflies Have no Memories gerade wegen seiner überschaubaren Laufzeit ein äußerst ungünstiger Einstiegspunkt in Diaz’ Werk: Wer die Vorgängerwerke kennt, für den lädt sich jedes einzelne Bild mit zahllosen Assoziationen und Querverbindungen auf. Auf alle anderen muss der Film zwangsläufig einen unfertigen Eindruck machen. Bis zu einem gewissen Grad bleibt der Film in jedem Fall ein Mysterium. Auch hier machen bereits die ersten Minuten klar, in wessen Welt man sich befindet: Die erste Einstellung zeigt ein Gespräch in einem Cafe zwischen Mang Ferding, der Hauptfigur des Films und einem Freund, die Kamera ist schräg hinter den Figuren positioniert, das seitlich einfallende Sonnenlicht blendet, lässt das Gesicht der Hauptfigur verschwimmen und verleiht dem Film bereits hier etwas Apokalyptisches. Das Gespräch dreht sich um die Schließung einer Mine, die für das Dorf, in dem die beiden Gesprächspartner leben, lange Zeit die einzige Erwerbsquelle war. Im Mittelpunkt des Films steht zunächst Martha, eine junge Frau, die in ihrer Kindheit nach Kanada ausgewandert ist und nun ihr Heimatdorf besucht. Sie trifft auf alte Freunde und neue Verehrer, stolziert zwischen abgerissenen Hütten umher, fotografiert mal dies, mal das und spricht mit jedem, dem sie begegnet, in ihrem lupenreinen Englisch. Währenddessen sitzen der langhaarige Mang Ferding und seine beiden Begleiter, die eher Untergebene sind als Freunde (Mang ist eine in mancher Hinsicht ähnliche Figur wie der ehemalige Rebellenführer Julian aus Melancholia) auf der Straße und trinken. Nicht erst, als Mang Martha seine Waffensammlung zeigt, ahnt man, dass sie gut daran getan hätte, in Kanada zu bleiben. Butterflies Have no Memory leidet vor allem in den Anfangsszenen sichtlich unter seiner zeitlichen Beschränkung, unter dem Zwang, Plotpoints setzen zu müssen, die sich nicht organisch aus seinem Material ergeben. Erst als der Film die düstere, selbstzerstörerische Wendung nimmt, die im Grunde bereits in der ersten Szene angelegt ist, kommt er langsam zu sich selbst. Eine ganz und gar echte Lav-Diaz-Einstellung ist nur die allerletzte. Diese letzte Einstellung allerdings ist eine seiner bizarrsten und furchterregendsten überhaupt.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">From the blog, The Canine Condition</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-29766042060700127472010-07-19T16:53:00.000-07:002010-07-19T16:56:24.468-07:00Melancholia<span style="font-weight:bold;">by Allan Fish</span><br /><br />Just the night before first sitting down for the marathon sitting of Lav Diaz’s entire opus, I had been rewatching the flawed 1995 TV film England, <span style="font-style:italic;">My England</span>, John Osborne’s final work detailing the life of Henry Purcell. It had the feel of a funeral, not just because of the use of Wendy Carlos’s reworking of the immortal Purcell <span style="font-style:italic;">‘Funeral March of Queen Mary’ for A Clockwork Orange</span>, but in addition to Osborne’s final work it was also the last performance of Robert Stephens as Dryden. So far, so how is this relevant?<br /><br />And so it was that I took on Diaz’ masterpiece less than 24 hours later. A film that took me through a door that I thought had long closed and untouched since the heyday of Jacques Rivette. There had been long films since, films that would never be seen as commercial propositions, but Diaz was going further than anyone before. None of his films are on DVD, and this one wasn’t even his longest. It’s the only one I have been able to track down at the time of writing and is enough to convince me that he belongs in the higher echelons of cinematic visionaries still working today, with Lynch, Malick, Von Trier, Davies, Tarr, Haneke and Sokurov. All this from a film which could be argued as an oxymoron; the eight hour plea for cinematic minimalism. <br /><br />Take three characters – a prostitute, a pimp and a nun – who live in the remote small town of Sagada in the Philippines. Their paths intersect at various points prior to their meeting in the ruins of an abandoned building one wet afternoon. What transpires is that these three people actually know each other and are enacting parts, escaping and withdrawing from a world which has become too painful following the assumed death of loved ones. The pimp Danny Boy is really writer Julian, the mastermind of the ‘process’, the prostitute Jenine is really Alberta, widow of a rebel and adopted mother to a girl, Hannah, who is close to falling into her own abyss. The nun is Rina, and she finally cracks, taking her own life and causing the other two to question their own mindsets.<br /><br />Or that’s one take on it. Leaving aside the surface plot, just take in the detail, the pin-sharp monochrome hi-def photography, the deliberately natural sound which would make some dialogue inaudible but for subtitles, the way Spanish segues into English and back again, often in the same sentence, the way scenes don’t so much end as drift away before stopping abruptly. The camera barely moves, the characters moving slowly in and out of scenes so that the eye becomes quickly accustomed to examining the edges and far off distances of frames for characters or movement. Emotions are banished, exiled from the id, Julian organises sex shows for visiting tourists but the sex is at best mechanical, functionary, even tedious.<br /><br />Stylistically, it probably owes most to Béla Tarr, while Diaz himself was obviously inspired by Lino Brocka (even the music is done by his own ‘group’, the Brockas). Still, though, we go back to Rivette, that ferryman across the Styx of the id to a Wonderland beyond even Lewis Carroll’s imagination. Diaz’s version is a forbidding place, where characters feel safer in the dark and light scares, where storm clouds, both figuratively and physically, gather overhead like vultures surveying carrion and any form of coping mechanism, or ‘process’ to use the euphemism of choice, is better than living with reality, even screwing men for money. While its creator, Julian, can be seen as a God, a Christ-figure who in one scene looks at first glance like he’s walking on water. The characters, especially in the opening reels, move as if in a trance and, suddenly as if hypnotised, I recall the words of Robert Stephens as Dryden the night before; “our world has disintegrated. We moved as in a dream, shadows without substance. Thus did our life become. ‘Tis all a cheat, yet fooled with hope men favoured the deceit. Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay, tomorrow’s falser than the former day.” Diaz’s film summed up, the sadness of the world as timeless as its joys.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From the blog Wonders in the Dark, July 18, 2010</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-72259428192463114992010-07-04T18:10:00.000-07:002010-07-04T18:12:51.302-07:00Melancholia<span style="font-weight:bold;">Horacio Munoz Fernandez</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Un sólo ser nos falta y todo está despoblado .</span><br /><br /><br />Desde hace ya unos años se esta produciendo un interesante "seísmo" cinematográfico en parte del suroeste asiático, como lo atestiguan cineastas con un indudable talento : el indonesio Garin Nugroho , el camboyano Rithy Panh , los malasios James Lee y Tan Chui Mui o los filipinos Raya Martin y Lav Diaz , entre otros muchos , que nos acercan propuestas interesantes, radicales y provocativas , que nada tienen que ver con el mero exotismo oriental o con la moda pasajera de unos cuantos nombres.<br /><br />"¿Pero , cómo se puede sentir el tiempo de un plano?. La sensibilidad surge si tras el acontecimiento visible se hace patente una verdad determinada e importante. Cuando se reconoce clara y nítidamente que lo que se ve en ese plano no se agota en aquello que se representa visiblemente [...]". Desconozco si Lav Diaz es conocedor de cine Tarkovski o si ha leído Esculpir el tiempo , pero en Melancholia el director filipino lleva hasta al paróxismo muchos de los principios que cineasta soviético pusiera por escrito en su famoso libro.<br /><br />Y es que el tiempo se convierte en un elemento fundamental de la película , no sólo por su duración 450 minutos, sino por la forma por la cual Diaz lo fija en su cámara ,estática la mayor parte de los momentos, recogiendo interminables "tiempos muertos", acciones cotidianas , silencios y esperas que no hacen más que desvelar el abatimiento y la tristeza de unos personajes que no consiguen superar la desaparición de sus seres queridos.<br /><br />El sueño de Godard era hacer películas ficción que fueran como documentales , Lav Diaz consigue crearnos la sensación de estar asistiendo a lo que los documentalistas llamarían una película de carácter observacional, en muchos instantes parece imposible que lo que vemos sea un ficción , una representación orquestada por alguien, que los actores estén actuando o que exista un guión prefijado.<br /><br /><br />"Un sólo ser nos falta y todo está despoblado " decía Alphonse de Lamartine. Los personajes que circulan por Melancholia , transmiten un sentimiento de tristeza , de abatimiento , provocado por unas desapariciones de sus familiares y seres queridos , instigadas por un gobierno 5 años atrás que para eliminar culquier atisbo de oposición, había realizado una limpieza de disidentes. Nada parece dar consuelo al ni a Julian , ni a Alberta , personajes que que quieren ser otros para intentar superar la perdida y la desaparición de sus familiares. Que huyen de sus vidas para ólvidar el drama del que están presos. Pero el drama de los desaparecidos , es un luto permanente. Una melancolía que se acrecienta por lo inútil de la búsqueda , y el remordimiento de haber podido hacer algo más. Un remordimiento que no hace más que acrecentar la certeza de la irreversibilidad del tiempo.<br /><br /><br />Una mujer, canta a capela una desgarradora canción en medio de la selva:"El aire es frio, frío está el corazón,el cielo es frágil, la melodía se desvanece, yo te busco, te busco , te busco, cuando la noche llama y el calor se aplaca , toma este momento y recuérdalo siempre. El advenimiento del dolor, causado por la angustia, permanecerá a mi lado, un recuerdo de tu presencia." . Patricia la mujer de Julian , aparece como un fantasma ,por dos ocasiones recitando solitaria estos versos que bien pueden aparecer como sinópsis de esta monumental película.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">PUBLICADO POR HORACIO MUÑOZ FERNÁNDEZ (from the blog La Primera Mirada)</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-49793717348671798782010-04-11T05:32:00.000-07:002010-04-11T05:36:29.679-07:00Melancholia: Lav Diaz<span style="font-weight:bold;">Roberto Herrera</span><br /><br />Existen películas y directores, hechas(os) en nombre de la libertad creativa y individual, que ignoran cualquier compromiso comercial que impere sobre el riesgo de su propuesta. En el primer día del festival se proyectó el film "Melancholia", realizado por el director filipino Lav Diaz, una pieza de 8 horas de duración que ya había sido premiado en la 65th mostra de Venecia, en la sección orizonti, y que en Rotterdam está seleccionado en la sección spectrum.<br /><br />Es necesario un esfuerzo al analizar esta obra, para no caer en convencionalismos en el intento de clasificarla, pues al nominar en film como este, encuadrándole en un genero por ejemplo, seria el primer paso para tornarle más comercial. La palabra independiente ya es un síntoma de este tipo. Cuando hablamos de un cine hecho de forma libre, no es solo decir libre de lo comercial, pues seria más bien, libre de lo convencional, donde el único compromiso real es el del autor con su obra; del autor con el cine, y to lo que eso lleva implicado.<br /><br />Estamos hablando de una película que podría ser muchas. Sus actores adoptan más de un personajes, entran y salen de la narración, viviendo en metamorfosis en otros caracteres, que se constituyen en una historia coral (al menos 3 líneas de narración son inseridas progresivamente, que mantienen lazos narrativos cada vez mas abstractos en la mediad que el tiempo transcurre). El momento crucial del film sería un dialogo consigo mismo que uno de los personajes (Renato) hace, mientras esta en floresta filipina luchando por la revolución de su país : "Porque hay tanta tristeza en este mundo? La felicidad es apenas un concepto? La vida del hombre es solamente un proceso para superar su dolor?”<br /><br />En lo general, el film posee muy pocos diálogos, y ellos inseridos en acciones sencillas; como una persona buscando a otra por llamadas telefónicas (Julián a Alberta), o una monja que va por la calle pidiendo caridad ($$). El film se presenta sobre innumerables planos estáticos que al final se tornan secuencias estáticas. La estructura es: Un plano=Una acción interna=Una secuencia. Corte. Otro plano=Otra secuencia. Raramente el plano corta en la misma acción para resaltar una idea, o ver algún detalle, el concepto seria que exclusivamente a través de la larga duración del plano secuencia; el tiempo es suficiente para entender todos los detalles. De esta forma, cuanto más el tiempo se dilata, más la narración se abstrae, y como en que en un sueño los personajes van cambiando de cara, creando en el espectador una experiencia multi facial. Este dialogo que lo he citado, lo que seria el leitmotiv del film, ha sido dicho en la hora 7, después de un largo trayecto de los personajes metamórficos.. La estructura formal también mencionada, quedó bastante familiar después de las 8 horas, algo que me resultó en una gran dificultad al visionar otra película después de esta.<br /><br />Una de las constataciones cinematográficas que "Melancholia" puede generar, es que se trata de un film absolutamente riguroso y conceptual, dado que el estricto estatismo formal vs movimiento interno, se mantiene fiel del primer minuto hasta al final de las 8 horas. Cual seria entonces el concepto del riguroso encuadre estático de la cámara de Lav Diaz? Son muchas las posibles respuestas para esta pregunta teórica; quizás demasiada personal para que un director se nos cuente, tanto que cuando entrevistamos a Lav Diaz, y le preguntamos sobre que el considera entonces un movimiento de cámara, su respuesta a sido a la no teoría de su cine; y que la libertad debe predominar por encima de cualquier concepto cerrado. Si Lav Diaz se pregunta si la felicidad es un concepto, lo hace seguro que la libertad que tiene para preguntarse, no lo es.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From the blog Imagemtexto</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-74655585582917907852010-03-19T17:17:00.000-07:002010-03-19T17:20:10.456-07:00Evolution of a Filipino Family<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Raya Martin</span><br /><br />Everything is told, but nothing was ever written.<br /><br />The decade closed like a baffling movie ending: film critics Alexis Tioseco and Nika Bohinc were shot dead during a robbery in the former’s home in Manila. In addition to being one of the few defenders of true independent cinema in the region, Tioseco was also the greatest supporter of Lav Diaz, the Philippines’ standard-bearer of so-called contemplative cinema (or cinema of comatose, as Noel Vera puts it) and arguably the country’s most important working filmmaker. Yet his death also came at a time when the most recognized contemporary Filipino director, Brillante Mendoza, had just won the Best Director award at Cannes for Kinatay (2009), lamentably cementing the country’s identity as a purveyor of “poverty porn.”<br /><br />Unlike Mendoza, who is a direct heir of Lino Brocka, Diaz’s references are more diverse. His films are founded in comic magazine literature (which Diaz wrote for in his early days), played in the style of traditional local melodrama, and strengthened by knowledge of foreign literature and film (Dostoevsky, Tarkovsky, Tarr). The result is like nothing else in Philippine cinema: part history class, part film history, and pure cinema. <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang West Side</span> (2001), the first film outside his studio career and the first in what has now become his signature aesthetic, is a formidable example. The film is a crime story without any shoot-outs, a melodrama without the histrionics, yet everything is so very familiar, so Filipino that it would cover the gaps in our country’s best works: the thrillers of Mike De Leon, sophisticated ensembles by Ishmael Bernal, even Brocka’s social-realist tales.<br /><br />Even after five epic works, varying in length from five to 12 hours, <span style="font-style:italic;">Evolution of a Filipino Family </span>still stands as Diaz’s canonical achievement. Filmed from early 1994 to late 2004 and accompanied by a dynamic post-production, the film follows neither a traditional studio method nor the organic process of a Kidlat Tahimik, whose cinema is propelled by spontaneous ideas and intuitively constructed from hours of celluloid and video footage, whichever was available at the moment. By contrast, Diaz’s embrace of spontaneity and chance collaborates with the presence of a script, which he sometimes constructs a night before shooting depending on previously organized casting and locations.<br /><br />Set during the martial rule of the Marcos regime, E<span style="font-style:italic;">volution of a Filipino Family</span> follows Raynaldo, an orphan rescued from a garbage dump by the mentally ill Gilda, who is soon after raped and murdered. Taken in by Gilda’s brother Kadyo, the boy is confronted by a grandmother who constantly blames everyone for their misfortunes, an uncle’s involvement with the rebels and the underworld, and granddaughters forced to work for their survival.<br /><br />In a decade where veteran filmmakers were often more progressive than their younger counterparts, Lav Diaz preserved the spirit of local storytelling. Though reliant on a traditional narrative structure, Diaz’s cinema distends it drastically—not as aesthetic experiment, but in pursuit of a certain truth. Diaz claims that the sense of time in his films is based on that of rural people, and our repulsion (or admiration) lies in the fact that this truth is far distant from ours. <span style="font-style:italic;">Evolution</span> then becomes a simple, honest reminder about cinema: whose story to tell, and how to tell it.<br /><br />Diaz’s film is a selfless act of love, an achievement all the more exceptional in light of the fact that it was made on Third World soil, where cinema is condemned to the multiplexes and the hands of studio producers. It is an urgent film where an immediate audience does not matter; only when one comes to realize and accept the filmmaker’s generosity will he be able to fully appreciate the gift. Evolution’s grandeur is simple: it mirrors those complexities of our history that affect our people’s often misunderstood attitudes and ambitions. And much like the film, much like ourselves, the evolution remains unfinished.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From Cinema Scope, A Decade In Review<br /></span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-64632910874512603052010-02-27T16:25:00.000-08:002010-02-27T16:38:13.793-08:00LIVING TIME, SURVIVING TIME<span style="font-weight:bold;">An Overview of the Life and Films of Lav Diaz</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">By Jan Philippe V. Carpio</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">“I could never really believe that any artist could work only for himself, if he knew what he was doing would never be needed by anybody.”<br /><br />“The only condition of fighting for the right to create is faith in your own vocation, readiness to serve, and refusal to compromise. Artistic creation demands of the artist that he ‘perish utterly’, in the full tragic sense of those words.”<br /> Andrei Tarkovsky</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Unang Bahagi: Ang Alamat ni Taga Timog (Part One: The Legend of From the South)<br /></span><br /><br />Even though a once reliable memory betrays me for the exact details, some years back, somewhere in between films, some time after midnight, under roof or moonlight, perhaps over coffee (for at the time and until recently, he had sworn off taking any alcohol), Lav Diaz, the streaks of white much lesser then than they are now on his long, dark, rock star hair with or sans ponytail, narrowed his eyes that reveal a calm intensity as well as a deep sadness all at once for all they have witnessed and recorded up to that point, in a soft, low voice that reminds one of something encased in rubber and fuzz – but not at all artificial or unpleasant – said to me, “Filmmaking … It’s war man.”<br /><br />Like any young person not wishing to displease someone he admires and looks up to, I nodded my head in agreement. Like any young person wishing to appear older and wiser beyond my years, I nodded my head as if I understood.<br /><br />Nodding my head in agreement is pretty much all I am certain of to be true then since all I understood was the concept of the words, but it was only years later that, after my own experiences of bombardment, that I learned, in my own way, where their blood could be found spilled.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Southern Beginnings</span><br /><br />Looking back at Diaz’s own beginnings, the statement relating filmmaking and war seems apt. He was born in Datu Paglas, Maguindanao, Mindanao, Philippines on December 30, 1958, the day Philippine National Hero Jose Rizal was executed by Spanish colonizers in 1896. One of the largest islands in the world, where the southernmost regions and provinces in the Philippines are located, Mindanao holds a paradoxical and misunderstood place in the country’s history and daily life. It is perhaps the greatest representation of the country’s undeniable multiethnic, multicultural background – composed of numerous indigenous tribes, ethnic groups, Christians and Muslims – but at the same time containing the long standing prejudices, and at times, deep hatred of each group for the other. One of the deepest centers for the country’s spirituality – indigenous, Christian and Muslim – it is also the site of numerous ethnic, political, religious and clan wars that have claimed many lives over the generations. Much of its natural life sustaining beauty is ironically preserved from commercial exploitation by this very situation of peace and order. It has a long and proud history of its people successfully fighting off Spanish and American colonizers, while more recently Muslim separatists have waged one of the world’s longest wars against the national government. Touted as the country’s food basket, it is also where some of the country’s poorest provinces are located, and a long history of being unfairly neglected by the national government when it comes to infrastructure development and distribution of resources. Containing areas in the country with the most potential for growth and development, it has also become a strategic military location and power playground for both the Philippine and American governments. Mindanao is an essential part of the country, but sadly, for the most part, for many of the citizens from the other parts of the Philippines, “what happens in Mindanao – the violence, the bloodshed, the suffering – stays in Mindanao. It has nothing to do with me.” All this seemed to change – albeit temporarily – last November 23, 2009 when Maguindanao became the site of the horrific Ampatuan Massacre. An electoral motorcade of around 60 people that included a local Muslim gubernatorial candidate’s wife and female family members, drivers, journalists and lawyers were on their way to file his certificate of candidacy at a nearby town. There were also a number of motorists who were not part of the motorcade driving behind them. Before they could reach their destination, they were stopped and pulled off the road by a large force of armed men, a private army allegedly under the command of the province’s reputed warlords, the Ampatuan family. (The Ampatuans are political rivals of the Mangudadatu family who were on their way to file the certificate of candidacy.) The private army was also allegedly in collusion with members of local law enforcement and the military. The victims were taken to a hill some distance from the road, horribly mutilated, shot and hastily buried along with their vehicles. National and international condemnation of the murders was so swift and intense that it pressured President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo’s administration – who has deep personal and political ties with the Ampatuan clan – to arrest their members and put them on trial. In an e-mail to writer Jessica Zafra regarding the massacre, Diaz wrote,<br /><br />“Maguindanao… ang hirap, ang sakit. I’m numbed. Puro iyak at galit na lang ang nagagawa natin.” (Maguindanao… it’s so difficult, it’s so painful. I’m numbed. All we can do is grieve and be angry) (Zafra, 2009).<br /><br />As a young man, Diaz had witnessed first hand the full price of loss from these conflicts when in 1971, while in high school in Maguindanao, a war erupted between Christians and Muslims where “he saw friends from both faiths killing each other.” The Diaz family became refugees and were forced to relocate away from the conflict to the town of Tacurong in the province of Cotabato (Manrique, 2006). In an interview with the late film critic Alexis Tioseco (2006), Diaz also recounted the deep wounds caused by the declaration of Martial Law in 1972 by the late dictator Ferdinand Marcos and how this exacerbated the growing armed conflict in the region.<br /><br />“I grew up during the Martial Law years. And my experience of Martial Law was very brutal. I was in second year high school when Marcos declared [Republic Act] 1081 upon the land. In Cotabato, the year before the imposition, the pent-up tensions between the Muslims and Christians had exploded into a full-scale war. It was bloody, very bloody, terrifying, horrifying. And it became bloodier during Marcos’ reign of terror. While Christians and Muslims were on a rampage butchering one another left and right, the military entered the scene with an even unheard of fascistic fierceness and cruelty. They’d set up checkpoints in all directions; they’d hamlet communities; they’d be declaring so many areas as no-man’s lands and shooting any person seen at will, no questions asked.”<br /><br />These experiences of conflict, violence, death, pain and suffering, and living up to their responsibilities and consequences would later become an integral part of Diaz’s life and work. Despite the extreme difficulties, Diaz’s parents, both pioneer public school teachers of Datu Paglas, worked hard to properly raise Lav and his siblings. The third of three sons and one daughter, he seemed almost centrally cast at birth as the perfect filmmaker to record and investigate “the nature of the Filipino soul”. Even though he was born and raised in Mindanao, his late father Mario Vigilia Diaz was an Ilocano (an ethnic group from the northernmost part of Luzon island), while his mother Maria Linis Indico Diaz is an Ilonggo (an ethnic group from the middle group of islands of the Visayas). By blood, culture and residence, Diaz embodies his country’s multiethnic and multicultural background. Sharing Diaz’s Ilonggo ethnic heritage, I recall a humorous story he told me from his childhood that illustrates the ethnic and cultural differences between his parents. It was some time in the evening in Datu Paglas. The Diaz family was spending a relaxing evening at home, when suddenly, the silence of the night was disturbed by the sounds of “Tiktiktiktiktik!” coming from somewhere outside. (In Philippine culture, the tiktik sound indicates the presence in the vicinity of an aswang – one of the many types of Philippine supernatural beings that feast on human flesh and blood. Although belief in aswangs is prevalent all over the country, according to Diaz, their mythological origins can be traced back to the Visayas.) Upon hearing the sounds, his mother began setting fire to small pieces of tire rubber. (This gives off a smell that reportedly drives away the aswangs.) She then grabbed a bolo (Filipino machete), ran outside, and began screaming into the darkness in the Ilonggo language for the aswang to leave them alone or die. Instead of joining her outside, Diaz’s father merely shook his head and remarked to Lav in the Ilocano language something like, “There goes your crazy mother again.” Whereas his mother’s devout Catholic faith and strong spirituality may have played a part in influencing the spiritual nature of Diaz’s films, he credits his public school supervisor father for instilling in him a love for the film medium itself. During weekends, his father would bring the children to urban center of the province where they would “watch up to eight movies in movie houses that had double features” (Manrique, 2006).<br /><br />“My father was really a ‘film maniac’," says Diaz. "We would watch all the movies on Saturday and Sunday, and then we would sleep in the bus station. My mother would be mad at my father because we had mosquito bites all over. That was really my early education on cinema.” (Manrique, 2006).<br /><br />“Subliminally, my father was my film mentor. He is the quintessential cinephiliac. We were living in the middle of a forest in a far-flung village in Cotabato, Mindanao, but every weekend or [on] holidays we’d never miss [going to] the cinemas. There were four cinemas then in a nearby town, about two hours’ drive from the village, and they’d always show double bills and we’d watch them all and we’d talk about them after watching. And my parents are bookworms and storytellers and teachers. They read and read and read. My father was very much into Russian literature. They are very industrious and giving. So, yes, the dialectics and dynamics of that milieu have had lasting impact on my cinema and my view of this world” (Tioseco, 2006).<br />His father’s love of “ … Russian literature and all things Russian …” led to Diaz’s own love affair with Russian artists who became his artistic heroes like the great writer Fyodor Dostoevsky, and the filmmaker he holds above all others, Andrei Tarkovsky. (Manrique, 2006). Once, while attending a film festival in Russia, some of his hosts, upon discovering his full first name was Lavrente, their eyes wide with shock, asked him if he knew what it really meant. He replied that he was well aware that his father had named him after Lavrentiya Beriya (the infamous head of the Soviet Union’s NKVD, the forerunner of the KGB) (www.wikipedia.org). Perhaps a touch of ironic humor from his father aside, from the beginning, in the world Diaz grew up in, art eventually could have been perceived in three ways: one, as completely irrelevant in the face of horror, two, as an escape from the difficulties and conflicts of life, and three, as a way to make sense of the madness of life and somehow initiate a process of healing. Fortunately, from the beginning, Diaz had chosen to act upon the third more essential and deeper purpose. Healer and psychic Bong De La Torre once profoundly declared that for the islands and islands groups that make up the Philippine archipelago, Luzon is the mind, Visayas is the heart, while Mindanao is the belly where the fire rages. The same might be said of Diaz’s works which attempt to and have succeeded in combining all representative organs and their energies into one functioning organism of art, one film at a time. For a long time though, it was the fire from the conflicts in Mindanao and his early years there that had left their burn scars on Diaz’s life.<br /><br />“I was stricken with paralysis when I was about eight years old and I couldn’t walk for more than a year. I struggled to relearn how to walk and when I was finally able to walk, I had to deal with a very dysfunctional body motor system—the pain in the bones of the left side of my body, particularly the left foot, remains a recurring problem until today, especially in severe cold and humid conditions. The trauma and shock and stigma stayed with me for so long. It was hell, I tell you” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br />As a young adult, the war and the violence and suffering being experienced by friends and family there continued to afflict his thoughts. In order to be near to the scene of the tragedy, he decided to transfer from the Jesuit-run Ateneo De Manila University to its sister school back in Mindanao, Ateneo De Davao. Unfortunately, fraternity troubles caused him to get expelled. He enrolled at Notre Dame University in Cotabato where he eventually finished a degree in Economics (Manrique, 2006). Based on a lot of filmmakers’ personal histories, it seems a rare occurrence that one decides at a young age to become a filmmaker as one might plan to pursue other professions like doctor, lawyer, teacher. As Tarkovsky once declared, you should not choose cinema, it is cinema that chooses you. Diaz was no different. He originally wanted to become a musician and he pursued his dream vigorously by playing guitar in a band during his university years.<br /><br />“The nascent Cotabato music scene embraced folk, rock, and eventually punk and Diaz, who was already composing songs by then—in English, Pilipino, Ilonggo and Maguindanao—formed a group called Cotabato. The band played local gigs, for which each member was paid P25 a night, along with a free burger and beer. Their goal was to make it to the rough and tumble Mecca of Pinoy rock, Olongapo City. The game plan was to immerse themselves in the ’Gapo club scene, get good and become the next Juan de la Cruz Band” (Caruncho, 2008).<br /><br />Like a lot of university students in the Philippines, Diaz took Economics not out of personal choice, but as a way of fulfilling his parents’ wishes. Upon completing his degree, the next step would have been returning to Manila to take up music at the University of the Philippines. All this changed when he got married during his third year in college (Manrique, 2006). Based on the discouraging socioeconomic conditions in the Philippines then and at present, and unless one comes from a higher socioeconomic class (usually the elite), if choosing to take the path of the artist is extremely difficult to begin with, choosing this path while trying to raise a family at the same time is rare and usually at a tremendous personal cost, if not impossible at times. In his article on Diaz for the Sunday Inquirer magazine, writer Eric S. Caruncho (2008) recounts an incident one evening where after coming home from a band gig with the usual P25 honorarium (USD 1.84 as of the latest exchange rate), Diaz ended up smashing his fake Gibson guitar to pieces after getting into a terrible fight with his wife.<br /><br />“Of course I regretted it the next morning, but it was too late. I lost interest in the band. I had a child, got a job. I got interested in literature, and then cinema. But I never stopped writing songs and poems. I can’t stop writing songs and poems—they’re the easiest for me to write” (Caruncho, 2008).<br /><br />While trying to eke out a living for his family in Mindanao, his detour into writing paid off somewhat when one of his literary works won the Philippine equivalent to the Pulitzer Prize, the Palanca Award. Temporarily abandoning his musician dreams, Diaz set out to find the difficult balance between his personal artistic dreams and his domestic responsibilities as a husband and father.<br /><br />“<span style="font-weight:bold;">Manila, Manila, I keep coming back to Manila …”</span><br /><br />In the 1980s, the final side in his love triangle of art came calling for him across the islands and seas when he decided to move his family to Manila to pursue filmmaking (Caruncho, 2008). While attending scriptwriting workshops under legendary screenwriter Ricky Lee who wrote several of the classic films from the Second Golden Age of Philippine Cinema – the generation of Lino Brocka – Diaz took on several jobs to support his family. He became a journalist for two tabloids, People’s Journal and Taliba, and later wrote for two television programs:<span style="font-style:italic;"> Balintataw</span>, a drama program, and <span style="font-style:italic;">Batibot</span>, a children’s show. Lee eventually recommended him and two other workshops classmates to take filmmaking workshops at the Mowelfund Film Institute (Manrique, 2006). Most of the universities at the time did not offer filmmaking as a degree course and apart from the long and arduous process of “working your way up” in the commercial film industry to become a director, government grants from the film fund of the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, the only other avenue was the Mowelfund Film Institute. Diaz began attending workshops at Mowelfund in 1983, the year that fierce Marcos critic and hero Benigno “Ninoy” Aquino was assassinated as he stepped down from his flight from the U.S.A. onto the tarmac of the Manila airport (Caruncho, 2008). This prompted the largest funeral in Philippine history as well as encouraged further protests against the Marcos regime. His workshop facilitators included filmmakers of repute such as Raymond Red, Nick Deocampo and Christoph Janetzko. In one of the workshop seminars for scriptwriting, Diaz encountered National Artist for Film Lamberto Avellana who earned his reputation during the First Golden Age of Philippine Cinema. This meeting led to a memorable stint with the legendary filmmaker where Diaz gained much knowledge and inspiration on film, art and life in his search for his own personal aesthetics. He completed two short films at Mowelfund. The first film <span style="font-style:italic;">Banlaw</span> was shot on Super 8 in 1985. The three minute film focuses on an early ancestor of the prototypical Diaz character: a good but deeply flawed man suffering from the terrible burden of a world gone mad on his shoulders decides to commit an ultimate act of sacrifice. In this case, a young man inspired by a television broadcast of a young Buddhist burning himself decides to walk naked and kill himself on the streets of Metro Manila in protest of the injustices committed by the Marcos regime. The second film <span style="font-style:italic;">“Step No, Step Yes” </span>was shot on video in 1988 (Tioseco, 2006). Diaz’s recounted the experience of the <span style="font-style:italic;">“Step No, Step Yes”</span> shoot:<br /><br />“We shot three weekends in the squatters’ area in Pasay City called Leveriza, a very dangerous place then. On the last day of our shoot, a man was killed over an argument of his supposed nonpayment of a two-peso turon 5he ate. Bloody and scary, but we finished the shoot” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br />More than the narrative that revolved around a peeping tom and a prostitute, Diaz’s account of the shoot seems to indicate the beginnings of his attraction for using technically and physically dangerous conditions and locations as valid but risky means for creating his art. The evidence of this artistic embrace of real danger continues to be present in his later work like shooting in the dead of winter for <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang Westside</span> where the 35mm film camera gears would freeze, the dynamite blasting gold hunt scenes in <span style="font-style:italic;">Ebolusyon</span>, shooting in actual typhoons and thunderstorms for scenes in <span style="font-style:italic;">Heremias</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span>, and the physical aftermath of super typhoon devastation along the slopes of the active Mayon Volcano in <span style="font-style:italic;">Death in the Land of the Encantos</span>. (This affinity for extreme creative conditions – albeit on a technically smaller and more natural scale – Diaz seems to share with German New Wave filmmaker Werner Herzog.) In 1986, the Marco Dictatorship fell after the EDSA People Power Revolution. The Marcos family and most of their cronies fled the country. They returned later in the 1990s and exploited the Filipino people’s collective amnesia to unfortunately re-establish a significant amount of their fallen power and influence. By the late 1980s, Diaz was at least partially living his filmmaking dreams, but even while attending eye opening film workshops, gaining knowledge and experience from working with his classmates and mentors, artistic, professional, financial and personal difficulties continued to tear at him.<br /><br />“Those were different times,” he recalls. “We were living on Basilio St. in España. There was no digital video then. There were 40 of us in Mowelfund fighting over the one 16mm camera. There were seven 8mm cameras but no film. If you were rich you could buy film but a roll of 16mm film was 80 dollars. It was a dead end” (Caruncho, 2008).<br /><br />“… and even super 8 rolls were kind of expensive, to thrive as a filmmaker meant to go mainstream, the so-called ‘industry.’ And you know, the industry is the status quo and the culture there is very feudal. They protect their turf, they are wary of newcomers especially if you’re ‘schooled’. To break in was hardcore. That’s an understatement; I mean, it is really, really hard. More often, it’s more of swallowing your pride and accepting compromise as a norm. And if you didn’t know anybody, the only route was to write scripts and show them to people or enter them in competitions” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br />Diaz’s first frustrating encounters with mainstream commercial filmmaking came with an assistant director stint for a Gil Portes film shot in the U.S.A., being one of a duo of writers chosen to work for the “King of Philippine Movies” Fernando Poe, Jr., and a comedy for Regal films. After his project at Regal ended, he decided to stop working in the commercial filmmaking milieu (Tioseco, 2006). Apart from the lack of proper film resources and venues, Diaz’ health began failing due to a deteriorating lung condition discovered by chance during a medical examination for one of his job applications. His treatment of heavy medication took a great toll on him physically and mentally.<br /><br />“… for six months there was this very strict daily injection and popping of so many pills and tablets and liquids. The doctor warned me that if my lungs weren’t ‘cleared’ after the sixth month, there was a possibility that it would slide into lung cancer. I was high everyday, seeming to float when walking; my skin felt thick, numbed and itchy; sounds in my ears were muffled and magnified; my thoughts would go high speed and slow motion and backward and forward and up and down and east-to-west-to-north-to-south. I could walk for hours, I could go motionless for hours, I could be staring at a cockroach for half a day, people would look weird, my writing bordered on dementia, it was a crazy period. And Mowelfund was located then at the basement of the creepy Manila Bay Film Center of Imelda Marcos. Heard of the stories of the hundreds of workers buried alive there so that the ‘Madame’ could dance with George Hamilton on time, listen to the Russian piano prodigy and sing “Dahil sa ‘Yo” on a yacht going to Corregidor? Imelda is the supreme magic realist being” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br />At that point in his life, Diaz felt physically and emotionally burned out. On top of everything, there was also the constant difficulty of providing proper living conditions for his family. A bleak situation he graphically describes with mixed emotions:<br /><br />“In Manila, I had reached a dead-end. I was practically killing myself working in newspapers, my last [job] being a deskman in a Tagalog tabloid, and [I was also] submitting scripts in television serials, writing unproduced screenplays, writing scripts for komiks6. I was a book salesman while studying law; I wrote serious stuff that won Palancas; I won screenwriting and essay writing contests. But for what, my family was starving. We lived in Krus na Ligas, a squatters’ area inside UP Diliman, cramped in a tiny, rented room; we had to sleep in one small bed, the five of us—my wife and my three kids—we had to put chairs on the edges to keep our feet from dangling and be bitten to smithereens by ghetto mosquitoes and rats. All I could do was curse in silence while looking at my friends from film school shooting while I was working as a full-time family man. I didn’t regret being a family man because I love my children very much but like I said, we were at a dead-end; there was no relief in sight. And there was no digital then. At some point, I thought I could never do my films. Abandoning music was already a very painful experience (I destroyed my guitar and burned all my songs) and if I were to abandon cinema, I didn’t know what I would do. I couldn’t afford to kill my soul twice” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">“… If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere …”<br /></span><br /><br />Diaz’s situation in the Philippines had deteriorated to the point of frustration and despair till one of his film works became the unplanned catalyst for a new direction and a new location in his life.<br /><br />“I arrived in New York on the 21st of July 1992. Fate brought me there. It wasn’t planned at all. A commissioned video documentary I did on the street kids of Manila was invited to participate in a multimedia exhibit-tour of key areas of the US. When I got to New York, a Filipino newspaper invited me to be part of their staff. I stayed and worked as one of their editors. New York provided me some freedom, aesthetically and economically. My decision to live in New York has been all about pursuing greater heights for my art while liberating my family from the clutches of poverty” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br />Aside from the video documentary on Manila street kids, Diaz later “confessed” that his first film from Mowelfund <span style="font-style:italic;">Banlaw</span> also played an important part in helping him get some footing in the New York art scene – albeit in a more “unofficial” capacity than the documentary.<br /><br />“Time to ask forgiveness from Mowelfund: I stole the only copy [of <span style="font-style:italic;">Banlaw</span>] before I left for the US in 1992. My act wasn’t deliberate though. I visited Mowelfund and I saw our works scattered on this long table. I mean, the films were scattered there—16s, super 8s, video tapes—and you know Mowelfund then, the doors were open twenty-four hours, and people were coming in and out, stoned, drunk, gaudy, haughty, hungry, horny and totally fucked up, or fucking each other, and spaced out. I saw Banlaw lying on the edge. It was actually on the edge of the table in its utter blackness and smallness, and a slight push would push it to oblivion. I was scared; I might as well get hold of it; I reckoned I would return it in better times. I grabbed it and slipped it in my bag. When I got to New York, it helped me connect with the struggling independents in the East Village; I have this badge, [this] little crude film to show them. It even saved me from going hungry; we’d do underground showings of shorts, in basements literally, and ask for donations. I kept transferring. I lost it in the process, in one of the basements in Jersey City, I believe” (Tioseco, 2006).<br /><br />His wife and children eventually joined him in New York in 1997.<br /><br />“The interim five years in New York, before he was joined by his family, Diaz considers as “defining years.” “[Being in New York] was an accident, but it was also fortunate because, there, my perspective on cinema was solidified: that one should never compromise,” says Diaz. He stayed in East Village, a virtual commune of “struggling artists,” hobnobbing with such people as Jonathan Larson, the creator of the musical Rent. To complete his apprenticeship, he buried himself in film books and attended film retrospectives whenever he could, learning from such masters as Welles, Tarkovsky, Kurosawa, Mizoguchi, and Bresson” (Manrique, 2006).<br /><br />It was at film screenings at New York’s famous art house theaters like the Film Forum where the further reaches and possibilities of cinematic expression began opening themselves up to him. Apart from his deep and almost religious devotion to Andrei Tarkovksy – whose works he claims to memorize by heart even though at one time owning only un-subtitled VHS PAL copies of the films – he also shared with me a personal first encounter he had with one of the works of the patron saint of independent filmmaking, the filmmaker I hold above all others, John Cassavetes. Sometime in between the years of his arrival and his family’s arrival in U.S., loneliness overcame him and he went out for a walk. He eventually found himself inside the familiar space of a movie theater watching a film by a filmmaker that he had never heard of. The filmmaker was John Cassavetes and the title of the film was “<span style="font-style:italic;">A Woman Under the Influence”</span>. The film’s harrowing and compassionate emotional scenes completely crushed Diaz and helped illuminate many of his personal problems regarding his family that he missed terribly at the time. Like his experiences viewing Lino Brocka’s Maynila sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag (Manila in the Claws of Light) and Tarkovsky’s works, <span style="font-style:italic;">“A Woman Under the Influence”</span> reinforced his belief in the affective and transformative powers of cinema. Later, he told me in half laughter and half seriousness that to this day, despite the questions and incredulous looks of his guests, he keeps his copy of “A Woman Under the Influence” under the horror section of his film collection in New York. He channeled his renewed passion for filmmaking by embarking on several film projects, one of which would eventually become <span style="font-style:italic;">Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino</span> which he began shooting in 1994. At one point, apart from his main job at the newspaper, he supplemented his income by working as a waiter and gas station attendant to help fund his film productions. Although the situation seemed to be improving for him in the U.S., during his first year in New York, unbeknownst to Diaz, tragedy had befallen his family back in the Philippines. Olivia, his only sister, perished in a car crash at the age of 31. His eventual knowledge of the accident, and deep shock over his sister’s passing put his own life into grave perspective.<br /><br />"I was sitting on a bench in New York, one snowy day, and had lived, until then, the bohemian life. I had just gotten the news that my sister died. They had buried her without telling me. There and then, I realized that life is short. Just do what you have to do. Just put everything into praxis” (Manrique, 2006).<br /><br />His re-immersion into life translated not only in his art but also his lifestyle as he became a vegetarian and completely gave up vices like drugs, alcohol and smoking (Manrique, 2006). Beginning from <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang Westside</span> onwards, his production company Sine Olivia is perhaps named in homage to his late sister. A deeper homage to her can also perhaps be found in the character of the Hilda Gallardo, the insane woman whose rape and murder her son Reynaldo avenges but continues to be haunted by in Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino. Loss, though still ultimately lacking in the end, can perhaps find no better tribute than in art. An insight that would eventually find itself pushed past even the extreme limits of memoriam in Diaz’s subsequent films.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-weight:bold;">Jan Philippe “JP” V. Carpio is a writer, filmmaker, performer and teacher living and creating in Metro Manila, Philippines.<br /></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Bibliography<br /><br />Caruncho, E. S. (2008, October 12). To Hell and Back with Lav Diaz. Sunday Inquirer Magazine. Retrieved February 18, 2010 from http://showbizandstyle.inquirer.net/sim/sim/view/20081012-165978/To-Hell-and-Back-with-Lav-Diaz<br />Manrique, D. (2006, September 17). Lav Diaz: A Portrait of the Artist as a Filmmaker. from http://www.pinoyfilm.com/lav-diaz-a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-filmmaker<br /><br />Tioseco, A. (2006, January 30). A Conversation with Lav Diaz: Indictment and Empowerment of the Individual: The Modern Cinema of Lav Diaz. Retrieved February 19, 2010 from http://criticine.co /interview_article.php?id=21<br />Zafra, J. (2009, December 22). Lav Diaz, filmmaker from Maguindanao, on Maguindanao. from http://www.jessicarulestheuniverse.com/2009/12/22/lav-diaz-filmmaker-from-maguindanao-on-maguindanao/<br /><br />Wikipedia. (2009, December 2). from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lav_Diaz<br />Wikipedia. (2010, February 12). from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lavrentiy_Beria<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">The article is from The Auteurs (http://www.theauteurs.com/topics/7900)<br /></span></span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-24247249961445674442010-02-11T09:56:00.000-08:002010-02-11T09:59:59.673-08:00Heremias<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Film Angel</span><br /><br />The nine-hour epic is my pick as best Filipino film of the 2000s. It has a great start (probably the best initial two hours of a Lav Diaz epic), and a great cliffhanger of an ending. In between are amazing images and captivating stories. The tale of a Japanese straggler and the legend of the scary lizard deserve to be turned into separate films. Credit must also go to Ronnie Lazaro's excellent performance as Heremias.<br /><br />I love this Malay time-inflected film! It is a joy to see such laid-back film with lots of extended takes. French film critic Andre Bazin remarked that a long take allows viewers to settle on the shot and gives more freedom as to where to look. The freedom given to viewers is exhilarating. There is a danger though of viewers tuning out or growing restless.<br /><br />The first hour sets the pace of the film. It consists of several 10-minute or so long takes. The static shots focus on a handful of Brahman bull-drawn carts traversing a highway. The somber black and white cinematography enthralls the moviegoer to take a meditative look on the swaying grass blades and the zooming motor vehicles overtaking the carts. The lushness of the ambient sound enhances the contemplative experience.<br /><br />The film slowly lures us into the unhurried world of roving handicrafts vendors. I enjoyed this segment of the movie. Director Lav Diaz reveals beauty in the routine activities of the joyful vendors and their families. The local adaptation of the children’s song ‘Where is Thumbkin?’ has never been sung with much gusto as in this film. Songs, stories, food, and liquor figure prominently in the world of close-knit villagers. Eating and drinking become main occasions of communal life. The drinking sessions in particular are not only entertaining but flesh out the characters.<br /><br />The titular character, Heremias, seldom joins the men on extended drinking sessions. Thus, he ends up being the butt of stories. The elder of the group advises the men to just mind their own business and leave Heremias alone. During the course of the trip, Heremias chats with the elder. He wants to veer away from his companions. Despite friendly warnings about possible mugging and the prospect of running straight into a supertyphoon, he defiantly changes course and chooses the less-traveled road.<br /><br />There is a shot of the white Brahman bull plodding through the bumpy, rough road as seen from the eyes of Heremias. From that point on, the film shifts gear and thrust the viewer into the point-of-view of Heremias. The willing viewer gets to see and hear what he is experiencing.<br /><br />Contemplative moments abound in this film. There is a majestic, meditative scene showing a seated Heremias wading in the middle of a river. He is looking at a distant mountain. This scene prefigures a similar scene of a young Heremias looking at the Mayon Volcano in Book Two of Heremias. These meditative moments compel the viewer to ask what is exactly bugging the problematic merchant.<br /><br />Slowly, the character of Heremias comes to light. A dark deed in the past continues to hound him. Random encounters with people inevitably remind him of his past. Their tales allude to his dark side. However, his bouts with contemplation and a strong typhoon wash away anger in his heart. He withholds at the last second his plan to kill a suspected thief.<br /><br />Heremias seeks out the person/s responsible for the theft of his goods and his bull. Just as night falls, a group of young people holes up in his stakeout place. What Heremias (and the viewer) will see and hear for the next hour is disturbing enough to make people walk away. Try to imagine seeing drug crazed people doing despicable acts for almost an hour. Add to that shattering experience the cuss words and lewd stories rifling out of their foul mouths. These acts are light-years away from contemplative moments experienced by Heremias. He may have been itching to walk away but cannot because he might miss out on something important. He (and the viewer) patiently waits. The waiting took the whole of the penultimate hour but no earthshaking info came out of it.<br /><br />Paradoxically refreshed from the draining segment, I later caught on with the important plot info. The last hour of the film saw me eagerly anticipating Heremias’ efforts to rescue a young girl. After exhausting major means of saving her, the prophet-like Heremias gets kicked out of town by the police chief and left unconscious in the forest. Upon waking up, he implores God to save her. He hikes off to the mountains and vows to fast for 40 days. Redemption comes at last to the troubled wandering merchant.<br /><br />I’ve seen a two-hour preview of B<span style="font-style:italic;">ook Two</span> and it lives up to the high standards set by <span style="font-style:italic;">Heremias [Book One: The Legend of the Lizard Princess]</span>. I hope Diaz can finish <span style="font-style:italic;">Book Two </span>so that viewers can finally grasp the answers to lingering questions such as: What happens to the young girl? What are the dark secrets of reticent Heremias? Will <span style="font-style:italic;">Book Two</span> equal the excellence of <span style="font-style:italic;">Book One</span>?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From the blog,</span> <span style="font-weight:bold;">the persistence of vision</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">February, 2010</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-1117457843413790222010-01-29T21:37:00.001-08:002010-01-29T21:52:18.836-08:00From one ordinary viewer to Lav Diaz – man of the digital peopleFrom Sonthaya Subyen/Filmvirus<br /><br />August 2009<br /><br />Goodness! You actually did it. You were crazy enough to take up our invitation to come to Thailand. Astonishing to think that a passing reference to you and Andrei Tarkovsky on my blog could deliver you to us like this.<br /><br />Wasn’t it great though? The cinephiles in Bangkok surprised us all with their response to your films. Before the retrospective began I had to battle with the dreaded thought that us organizers would have to double up as your viewers. You’d turn up and get angry about how badly your retrospective was going – hardly any viewers, inadequate sound system and projector. I was already preparing myself in case we got raised eyebrows from our main venue, who made us rent our own equipment to use in their auditorium, and I resigned myself to getting an earful from you as well. Not so as it turned out. Our viewers were far more engaged than I’d anticipated – they were actually prepared to sit, or recline, for hours and hours watching your films. They even laughed along with the humorous moments in them. And you were far easier to talk to than I’d expected.<br /><br />I guess I could blame my pal Filmsick for stressing me out before you turned up. He’d posted a terrifying image of you on his blog, the one of you leaning fiercely over a table taken at the Venice film festival. The posture was so alarming I had to imitate it for you the night we went to that bar by the river. Based on that photo, whenever people asked me whose retrospective it was that I was organizing, I would reply “Carabao”. I hope this doesn’t offend you. I’m not talking about the word for buffalo in Tagalog. I’m thinking of a Thai band famous for their ‘music for life’ style. In fact, I even joked to my friends that if you blew us out at the last minute I’d invite any of the Carabao band members to come and make an appearance instead. You guys look alike enough – long hair, jeans, goatee – we would have gotten away with it. The only catch being we would have had to pay these Carabao guys some several hundred thousand baht, whereas you and Alexis turned up out of your own pockets. Your coming to Bangkok was a sincere, friendly gesture, and we Filmvirus people loved you for that.<br /><br />I can still vividly recall those amusing stories you told us, about how some student once accused you of not using hair conditioner, about how you accidentally featured a pop-up umbrella in a film you were working on, set in the Japanese occupation period. These memories are as deeply etched inside me as the afternoon we took you to see Khrua In Khong’s temple murals, hopping on a bus at Wat Arun, an afternoon which extended well into the night. That night ended memorably too with a ghostly encounter – all of us heard the same eerie, spectral moaning from one of the speakers attached to a public lamppost. And let’s not forget the consensus we stumbled on – all five of us around that table seemed to find Pen-ek’s films uniformly hollow. You really surprised me with your friendliness, and your entertaining conversations. You even bothered to ask me about my publishing projects, and the state of my health, about which you advised a daily dose of Wonderbra. Sorry! Wonderplant leaves. Of course I also discovered your intense cinephilia. You watch the classics – Mirror, Last Year at Marienbad – and the contemporary films – Abbas Kiarostami, Claire Denis. If I hadn’t happened to pop into a bookshop to buy Tarkovsky’s diary translated into Chinese, and the novel Picnic at Hanging Rock, I would never have found out about the extent of your knowledge of other people’s films. No wonder you got my joke about responding to Nicole Kidman the way Roberto Rossellini did to Ingrid Bergman – if Kidman ever wrote to you asking for a job.<br /><br />There’s one thing I’m really curious about. Before you started turning your back on the market, on the majority audience, you used to make fully commercial films. I’m really curious about these films, made before Lav Diaz became Lav Diaz. Can’t begin to imagine what they’re like. Probably melodramatic, wildly emotional, am I right? Are they anything like those excessively dramatic radio soaps you show in Evolution of a Filipino Family? I’d really like to know too what you make of Filipino films in general, and what you think about those chaotically energetic entertainment films our hot humid region of Southeast Asia churns out. (If you ever want to know what would happen if you crossed the Famous Five stories with superstition, sci-fi, Seven Samurai and the TV series Six Million Dollar Man, don’t forget to check out a Thai film called Yod manut computer/Supercomputer Man. It’s a great example of the cultcult Thai movie.)<br /><br />The Philippines probably has its fair share of over-the-top, cultish horrors. As far as I’m aware, Filipino filmmakers used to make B-movies for the Americans – mostly low budget gross-out horrors and women-in-prison shockers in the style of Roger Corman, or some such. Before you enrolled at that Goethe workshop with Christoph Janetzko (teacher of Raymond Red and our very own Paisit Punpreuksachat, also Pimpaka Towira), before you got into films, like Lino Brocka’s, that scraped the hard skin underneath the feet of politicians, was there ever a part of you that loved home-style entertainment movies? I get the impression there are many similarities between our national film cultures. So perhaps before you became the Lav Diaz who makes films at the very limit of our idea of cinema, before you became our digital hero, you may once have fallen under the spell of the 100% entertaining entertainment film too.<br /><br />Since we both share a common ancestry, our dubious parallel heritage of nonsensical, instant noodle films, I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you about the Thai films of days long past. The films that were made before consciousness, morality, aesthetics, or plain old affectation took over, resulting in the robotic standard of propriety that imposes itself on Thai films today.<br /><br />Back then Eden was filled with cheapie home-style movies, sincere in their transparency of purpose: to make a bit of dough by getting stars to do whatever they did most lovably in front of the camera. That was more than sufficient, economically speaking. The consciousness of the director as auteur was about a zillion kilometers removed, the demand for serious content was met, backhandedly. Miss Morality was always wheeled out, hurriedly, in the final closing minute – that was enough fodder for social decency. (Don’t get me wrong, the filmmakers meant well enough. It’s just that amusement went the opposite direction of aesthetics, and refused to exit the garden of infantile pleasures.) These were the days before the mass arrival of new waves figures such as Prince Chatrichalerm Yukol, Cherd Songsri, Khunnavutr, or Permpol Choei-arun, whose socially responsible films earned them the sacred halo of quality. Before they took over, we could boast of films once so ‘primitive’ that foreigners who get the chance to see them today would begin to understand that the stork didn’t deliver Apichatpong Weerasethakul to Thailand. We needed more help than that – perhaps some artificial insemination concocted by the gods of cinema.<br /><br />Well, let’s face it, Thai films back then answered only to their own odd logic. Kids these days probably can’t begin to imagine what they were like, these films which were held captive to the monogamous coupling. Whoops! The monopolistic pairing of the leading man and lady. They’d also have to get used to the theatrical style of the voice performers, who gave our leading couples exaggeratedly crystalline intonation. This was the same period as the first generation of TV soaps, broadcast in black and white and performed live. Viewers bore witness to everything, the mistakes, the whispered prompting which sometimes had to be repeated several times before the actors could pick up where they left off. It’s true that, when compared to the TV soaps, the films of this period could at least edit out the mistakes. At least they used actual locations for background, rather than cheap wooden boards painted the texture of the sky or sea. But if we were to go further and speak of the 'lighting composition' of these films, we’d have to admit that the light did all the composing. All the human hand had to do was to shine as much light as was maximally possible onto the set. The heroines were over-the-top too, going to sleep in full makeup in a bedroom electric bright all the way from the foreground to the background. (This was the reason why this cinema’s biggest star, Petchara Chaowarat, went blind.) And what about the camera? With its love of the rapid zoom in and out, it made viewers travel through space faster than even the time machine itself.<br /><br />The members of the cast: the mother and father, the minor royals, the major dignitaries, the servants, the baddies, the jealous mistress, the comedians positioned by the throne and the spittoon ready to massage and humor their masters, and don’t forget the sex bombs. All of these characters would line up in a single file in front of or behind the sofa, mouthing the longest dialogues – the lines that set sail and got lost, drifting further and further into distant water. The unfunny formula of getting the lines wrong then right then right then wrong again and again and again. (Just like what I wrote.) The lines that sometimes strayed below the belt (literally), playing for time while the couple inched their way back to their abode. That’s right, the taproot of likay folk opera runs deep in Thai cinema. This is a truth not recognized by the new wave army just mentioned, or the teen filmmakers of the Tai Entertainment era (mid-1980s to 1990s), intent as each of them were to scrub Thai films clean of their primitivism. This trajectory they call progress has since delivered us the company GTH (Gmm Tai Hub), whose films display not an iota of awareness that the more they try to create decorative, trendy mise-en-scenes, the further their films stray from the lives of ordinary people. This is why us oldies, who have fallen out of the trend, have had to flee into the embrace of TV, both as viewers and producers.<br /><br />But once upon a time there was a pair of stars I followed passionately, called Sombat Methanee and Aranya Namwong. Their names resonate so strongly still among the folks of my generation. Every time I think of the first Thai film in my living memory their faces come to mind. Up to the 1980s, Thai cinema was a cinema of a handful of stars, coupled off in pseudo-romantic pairs. The last of these was the pairing of Jintara Sookkapat and Santisuk Promsiri. There wasn’t the kind of inflation of stardom you see now. Mit Chaibancha and Sombat each starred in god knows how many movies a month. They literally had no time to sleep. Every time a scene was shot of the hero climbing up to a helicopter, whoever financed that film would reach for the nearest prayer book. (Back then the stars did their own stunts. No sling, no stunt – we had that long before Ong Bak laid claim to it. In fact that was how Mit, the number one leading man before Sombat came along, met his death – plunging off a rope ladder dangling from a helicopter mid flight.)<br /><br />At the height of his fame Sombat could probably be compared to Gérard Depardieu, the French ex-superstar. He could star in any genre – drama, action, but was in his element in smutty comedies. You could say of all the James Bonds he was most like Roger Moore. Even better was the fact that he had a fine voice, and had been a singer before he became a star. Compared to Sombat, Mit was a leading man in another style – polite, modest, a gentleman both on the screen and off. He was probably more like Sean Connery.<br /><br />As for the content of films Sombat starred in, there wasn’t much to worry about. In those days if the filmmakers didn’t adapt, or mangle, a novel, they’d make up their own plot. In most cases they’d steer clear of realism or serious content. The stars were so busy working on so many films at the same time they didn’t have time to change their hairstyles to suit each role. And why bother? When their fans loved them as they were, wanted to see them in the kind of stories they were used to, and devoured the sight of their smiles and body language in a manner that they could identify with. Intellectual affectation really wasn’t an appropriate accessory to these films.<br /><br />The first love is always the best love, right? Although I came to admire male stars like Pairoj Jaising, Pairoj Sungwoributr, Kanchit Kwanpracha, Yodchai Meksuwan, Sorapong Chatree, and Thoon Hiranyasap, each for different reasons, Sombat still remains the number one for me. The fact that he’s been in all sorts of atrocious films (including that one, Tears of the Black Tiger) doesn’t change the way I feel for him. Once I even went as far as to seek out his biography, called Pen phra-ek sa jon dai/A Star at Last. It claims he’s been entered in the Guinness Book of World Records as the man who’s starred in the greatest number of films, more than 617, and opposite at least 87 leading ladies.<br /><br />So are you beginning to see now how much of this rubbish is in me, Lav? This wasn’t the side of me I revealed during our conversations. How I would like to have a go at making a film in this primitive style, the type of film that might end with a twist revealing the hero to be a police captain in disguise, sent on an undercover mission. I’d especially like to lay my hands on our very own kind of romcom. But there would be no point in doing this only to pay sentimental homage to the films of the past, or to express a yearning for the good old days. And of course there would be no point at all in satirizing them. Anyone who wants to cite these films in the present would have to do so with understanding and attachment. They can neither blindly elevate the films nor raise themselves above them. And let’s hope the result would differ from Tears of the Black Tiger and The Adventures of Iron Pussy (although I do like this film of Apichatpong’s).<br /><br />Is my letter getting too long for you, Lav? I hope not, since you make 11-hour films. Like I said to you in person, sitting through your films made the tender skin on my buttocks so sore I had to rub Tiger balm on them (true story); to which you replied, “Sorry man”. So consider this my turn to claim your time.<br /><br />The point of telling you my shaggy dog story is this: I wanted to let you know that Sombat Methanee has directed films too, 16 in total if I’m not mistaken. No, they’re not particularly good, but I expect many Thais remember them still. The most memorable one for me is Salakjit, with Sombat in the leading role opposite the young Jarunee Suksawad (think of Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in Charade). But let me tell you about his fourth films, Yae nuad sua or, in English, Operation Black Panther.<br /><br />That’s right, black panther, though on the credit titles roams a pink panther in the style of a Blake Edwards’s Inspector Cluzot film. In Sombat’s film the Black Panther is the name of a terrorist organization up to no good as usual. In films like this one, if terrorist organizations are not bent on conquering the world then they’re busy killing this or that person. Think of Dr Fu Manchu or James Bond. Everyone in the Black Panther organization wears a mask. The punishment dealt to those lower down the line of command includes the 007 trick of throwing them into the panther’s cage.<br /><br />What does our hero Sombat have to do with this sinister organization? Well, the nonsensical pretext is that our hero happens to be addicted to mystery novels of the Sherlock Holmes, Arsène Lupin or James Bond varieties. By a series of mishaps the Black Panther takes him for one of their assassins, so our unwitting hero has to carry out the tasks assigned to him.<br /><br />The assassin from Harvard falls at the first hurdle. He turns up late for work forgetting to load the bullets in his gun. For this piece of stupidity our assassin becomes the man wanted by the organization.<br /><br />It’s the moment Sombat appears in one particular scene that I would like to make you, Lav Diaz, party to history (this history which is so important to me). It’s the moment of his arrival in Siam Square.<br /><br />Do you remember Siam Square, Lav? On it sits New Light restaurant where our 20 strong group ended up, on its third floor, after the opening night of your retrospective. Thirty odd years separate the New Light we ate in and the New Light in the film, but in terms of its architecture and atmosphere not a great deal has changed. The shops around it have though – god knows when the Hard Rock Café suddenly cropped up. Back then the clothes, the hairstyles and the taxis looked very naff, but Sombat’s car more than compensates for these lapses in taste. It’s a car that doesn’t look as pretty as Herbie, and at best it’s only a distant relative to the Mini Cooper. But what it has that the other cars lack is two front parts. That’s right, two front parts facing the opposite direction with one steering wheel in each part.<br /><br />Better late than never as they say. The comical honking of a car horn announces the arrival of Sombat’s silly yet useful vehicle. He may be late for his assassin’s job, but the compact size of the car means our hero can squeeze into the meagre gap that passes for parking space in Siam Square’s crowded hive. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the square that never gets lonely, whatever the age.<br /><br />Here we are in the parking space in front of New Light restaurant. The spot where Thailand’s leading politician, the arch enemy of the Black Panther, is about to get popped off. He will walk out of the restaurant after his meal and get into his car right here.<br /><br />Meantime Sombat is waiting opposite the restaurant, the same side of the square as the Doungkamol Bookshop. In the frame you get a crystal clear view of the shop’s sign: D.K. Bookhouse, the original branch of the book company I used to work for, the company that used to publish good books for generations of readers. The company that gave a space for D.K. Filmhouse (Filmvirus), those good people who brought to you astonishing, unusual films (aren’t we modest!) – films like Lav Diaz’s (boundless loyalty).<br /><br />Next up the chase scene, the universal part of cinematic language that’s been around right from the start, in the films of cinema’s forefathers the Lumières and especially in D.W. Griffith’s films. The scene we’re watching right now records the chase across Bangkok from Siam Square to the Golden Pagoda.<br /><br />No matter how hard the villains chase him Sombat always eludes their grasp. His weapon is the pocket car’s time saving genius. Whenever he finds himself hounded into a tight corner, Sombat would jump across into the other seat with the steering wheel. In this way he could drive off the opposite direction without wasting time reversing the car. Little Red’s double fronted model is a marvel of motor design giving the car the agility of a town mouse.<br /><br />This was Thai cinema’s answer to the James Bond or other spy thrillers of that period, its effort to match the genre’s formula featuring the talented, charming hero, the ladies’ man with his latest technological or motor gadgets. The gadget in Sombat’s film was novel enough for me at least. The kid that I was then was dumbfounded by the sight of it, which made me fantasize about getting my very own toy version to play with.<br /><br />Fast forward to the end of the film, the hero and heroine now sit behind each steering wheel taking turns to drive Little Red through narrow lanes dodging the enemies hot on their heels. The end arrives for this trusty little car when action girl on the enemy’s side has a stroke of genius and shoots multiple bullets down the middle of the mini where the two front parts are joined. Oh what a shame, amidst the shower of bullets raining down on it, our little mini becomes almost crippled. The steering wheel still works all right, but the back part of the car now trails limply scraping the road surface. Our hero has no choice except to rely on brawn, and pure luck, to get him out of this final tight spot.<br /><br />Of course no hero of this period could be a hero without martial arts skill. The other more interesting skill that heroes also needed to have, and Sombat had in spades, was sex appeal. In both the films that he starred in, and the films that he directed, Sombat didn’t shy away from bringing out this quality of his. Every now and then during a film’s running time, ladies adorned with only the bottom half of their two-piece would cling to him (in a manner that no grade-A Thai films these days would dare to do). He’d show off his toned muscles posing in small underpants, the color of bright canary yellow in some films. Sometimes he’d receive multiple blows from the villains, who’d end the lesson dealt to him by stripping him down to his red underpants. Even more astonishing still are the details in the biography I mentioned earlier. Sombat freely discloses in this book his tricks for the love scenes, his experiences in brothels (regarded as acceptable in those days), and even his tete-a-tetes with homosexual men – in the kind of saucy details that beggar belief that a leading man would dare to reveal this much of his life.<br /><br />Oh yes, I could carry on for days and days telling you more nonsense of this kind, Lav. But I don’t know if you yourself have any fondness left in you for silly, obsolete movies like this. (Or is your foot now itching to thwack the tender spot on my buttock where Tiger Balm was applied?) Yes of course the good old days are only a myth. Knockabout films like Luk sao kamnan/The Henchman’s Daughter, Mue peun nom sod/Fresh Milk Gun Man, or Kai luk khoei/Son-in-Law Eggs may have been part of the sweet scent of my past, but I have long been carrying this immense anger against Thai cinema too. Maybe I shouldn’t expect so much from something that’s as close to me as this. Maybe I should accept what’s real, make peace with Thai cinema in all its limitations, and give up nursing the hope that one day this thing will change into what it isn’t. But then again I’m probably blind to the value of Thai films as a kind of social barometer. I could try harder to fall in love with lowbrow kitsch, to delight in writing about them as a kind of alchemic reinvention – the kind of film criticism that Filmsick does so brilliantly. But then again I lost my head so long ago to the films cultural institutes of the west used to show. I guess you could call my submission to their activities a form of ‘colonial’ inculcation.<br /><br />As I write this sentence a strangely bitter laugh wells up inside me, yet brings with it a warm glow I experience so rarely in life – a sudden feeling of safety and belonging. Who knows what this is all about – perhaps it’s a sign of the last remaining thread that still binds me to this nation of mine. It’s only a strange thread, though, neither like Spiderman’s nor the web of the Black Widow.<br /><br />What about you, Lav? Have you ever been in this position? Have you ever had to work through bittersweet attachment like this one? Please send some advice. Tell me how you manage to stay on your feet in the business of cinema that’s so far removed from the realities of Filipino society.<br /><br />With respect,<br />and proud to have met you,<br /><br />Sonthaya Subyen<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">--- <br />Sonthaya Subyen founded Doungkamol Filmhouse, or D.K. Filmhouse, in 1995. D.K Filmhouse continues to program screening tours around university campuses in Bangkok and other provinces. Sonthaya writes film and literary criticisms for several magazines and is the publisher of the Filmvirus and Bookvirus paperback series.<br /><br />Translated by May Adadol Ingawanij <br /><br />From <span style="font-weight:bold;">criticine.com</span> (Love Letters)<br /></span>---santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-38392985832806609032009-12-01T03:40:00.000-08:002009-12-01T03:43:45.636-08:00Tiré à part<span style="font-weight:bold;">Nicolas Giuliani</span><br /><br />La terre s’est ouverte sous nos pieds. Le paysage s’est déchiré<br />de l’intérieur – un cyclone est passé, le monde a tremblé dans<br />cette fureur. La mer a avancé dans les terres, des villages ont<br />été arrachés, retournés, vomis dans des champs de pierres<br />et de cadavres. Le monde des hommes a cessé de tourner,<br />frappé au corps de son souvenir. Des hommes hagards, le<br />visage retourné, sortent de terre, descendent des arbres. Ils<br />reviennent d’un coin du monde qui les a protégés – une cachette,<br />un abri, un trou. Ce sont des survivants. Ce sont peut-être des<br />fantômes, le grand drap du cinéma est tombé.<br />Ça commence comme un balbutiement, après le drame, dans<br />un paysage apocalyptique. Lentement, les hommes reprennent<br />la tâche, et dans l’air recommencent le geste. La parole<br />remonte jusqu’à nous. Lav Diaz est là. Il enregistre, il filme ces<br />visages, ces hommes qui se tiennent debout et racontent. Il<br />faut réparer, avancer, compter les morts, faire d’un paysage<br />ce que l’on fait d’un visage familier soudainement secoué par<br />une émotion inconnue : le comparer avec le précédent, étudier<br />sa disparition, ce qui le renouvelle – le dépaysager. On retrouve<br />sa maison encastrée dans celle du voisin. Chacun a ses<br />confessions. « Ma mère est partie. Où sont mes enfants ? Mon<br />pauvre père. » Une blessure profonde tient le monde au ventre,<br />une béance – quelque chose est passé dans le réel, un gouffre<br />s’est ouvert dans la matière, sous nos pieds de spectateurs.<br />Mais un homme pleure. C’est Benjamin Agusan, un poète<br />philippin revenu de la Russie d’où il réside. Il est tombé à genoux,<br />il empoigne de la terre. Et comme si un mouvement plus sourd<br />provenant de sa volonté était aussi à l’oeuvre, il s’arrête. Tout<br />semble brusquement plus vide dans ce plan qui résonne. La<br />tristesse est immense. Lav Diaz a invité la fiction dans le réel.<br />Et alors qu’on tremblait en se demandant que faire de cette<br />beauté, de cette souffrance, Benjamin Agusan arrive à point et<br />prend en charge notre regard à la dérive. L’appréhension du<br />réel se fera par détournement, par le biais de la fiction. Mais ce<br />postulat romanesque est aussi une offrande érigée en principe<br />cinématographique : le documentariste a besoin de la fiction<br />comme d’une nécessité afin de saisir la complexité du réel, sa<br />fuite en avant, son bruit mat et sourd, sa profonde finitude et<br />digérer ainsi, modestement et avec sincérité, la fracture qui<br />se trouve entre le monde et nous, entre le réel et sa possible<br />représentation. Il y a une angoisse de la représentation,<br />une peur profonde de la forme qu’empruntera le réel pour<br />se mouvoir en elle – comment dire la mort, la blessure, la<br />mutilation ? Sans doute le documentaire, plus qu’aucune autre<br />expression artistique, se trouve-t-il à la frontière du visible et<br />de l’indicible. On montre le réel, on le révèle, ou on le cache.<br />On le soulève, on le déracine, on le surprend. De fait, il est<br />aujourd’hui entendu que Lav Diaz est comme tous les grands<br />cinéastes un documentariste, c’est-à-dire un filmeur qui élargit<br />les possibilités d’expression du réel par le biais de la fiction.<br />Benjamin Agusan pleure, il est le visage délaissé de ce<br />paysage de la désolation. A cet instant il est le caractère de<br />la compassion, et à cet égard le double du spectateur : il nous<br />relaie mais nous renvoie aussi une autre image. Nous voilà<br />calés sur le point de vue cinématographique de Lav Diaz : le<br />plus souvent la focalisation est externe et l’observation de la<br />situation prime sur son explication. La place du spectateur est<br />immense, et sa tâche doit être à la hauteur des espérances qui<br />sont fixées en nous : il faudra suivre le parcours de Benjamin,<br />affronter le deuil, la perte, l’errance, chanceler sous le poids<br />du souvenir et de la nostalgie, rêver d’amour, se heurter à la<br />mort et à la haine du pays natal. Le cinéma de Lav Diaz procède<br />par recouvrement et fixe son interrogation dans la question la<br />plus belle et la plus tragique de notre existence : celle de la<br />disparition. Etre au réel ou être au monde, c’est toujours faire<br />l’expérience de son inachèvement – un cinéma du réel nous<br />fait constater cette fracture, ce manque, cette absence. Cette<br />dimension du recouvrement s’inscrit dans le fer de la poétique<br />de Lav Diaz, car c’est un cinéma de la quête qui nous demande<br />à la fois de nous retourner et de nous avancer ; un cinéma de<br />la lutte qui nous confronte à la terreur du réel, et au souvenir<br />prochain de la pourriture qui nous guette – la mort est là, nous<br />demeurons en elle dans l’attente irrésolue de notre disparition.<br />L’homme chez Lav Diaz est soumis à une tension de l’existence<br />qui le déchire et le révolte. Il est hanté, dans sa farouche volonté<br />de vivre, par l’ombre du destin. L’apparition au monde se heurte<br />à son tragique effritement : c’est cette collision entre les deux<br />pôles de l’existence qui fournit au matériau dramatique de Lav<br />Diaz, son carburant et son feu.<br /><br />Dans <span style="font-style:italic;">Death in the land of encantos </span>(2007), c’était le parcours<br />de Benjamin qui incarnait cette quête. On le suivait, on prenait<br />ses pas, on s’ajustait à son mouvement. On le voyait dans<br />un contexte. On avançait dans cette grande fresque lyrique,<br />travaillée par le temps et ponctuée par les ellipses. On nous<br />donnait progressivement quelques indices qui comblaient<br />les lacunes et éclairaient les gestes des personnages à la<br />lumière d’un passé de l’ombre. On bâtissait des ponts entre les<br />personnages, entre les lieux et les actions : tout devenait limpide<br />malgré la virtuosité de la forme faite d’échos, de renvois, de<br />visions, de retours. Les lignes temporelles s’enchevêtraient. Le<br />passé revenait – la mère folle, la soeur tant aimée, des histoires<br />de famille, le corps d’une femme nue et endormie, sublimé par<br />des mots chuchotés. Le présent nous confondait en de longs<br />plans séquences. Le film interrogeait notre avenir et notre<br />Histoire ajustée dans un regard. Mais le recouvrement qui<br />était à l’oeuvre chez Benjamin, ce grand retour sur soi auquel<br />on assistait comme à une lutte secrète, perdue d’avance,<br />était métaphorisé par la catastrophe naturelle. De même que<br />le passé de Benjamin était enseveli sous les décombres du<br />temps, la terre natale aussi, après la catastrophe, avait perdu<br />la face. Dans les deux cas, il faut creuser pour retrouver ce qui<br />a été perdu, ce qui a disparu, ce qui est enfoncé. Car ce qui<br />a bougé dans une terre peut aussi bouger dans un homme :<br />l’analogie de la perte traverse les deux corps. Un grand souffle<br />est passé. La matière du monde s’infuse dans la personne de<br />Benjamin. Les palmiers, longs et aigus, tailladant le Ciel, la<br />mouvance gracieuse de leurs feuilles dans le vent. La pluie qui<br />ne cesse pas, la moiteur qui remonte et les ruisseaux gonflés.<br />Tout se tait, tout parle. Le bruissement du monde raconte notre<br />mélancolie. Dans la fiction, le réel est partout – séquences de<br />reportage et scènes romanesques s’entrecroisent, s’interrogent<br />mutuellement, se répondent, se creusent en de longs tunnels<br />dans les flancs du volcan, dans les vers du poète.<br /><br />Le même principe de recouvrement est à l’oeuvre dans <span style="font-style:italic;">Evolution of<br />a Filipino Family </span>(2004). Un enfant, Raynaldo, est retrouvé dans les<br />rues basses de Manille. Il est adopté par une mère folle, douce et<br />aimante, une femme qui flotte plus qu’elle ne marche, une présence<br />évanescente qui a tendu l’oreille au monde et aux coquillages de<br />la mer. Mais elle éveille la brutalité des hommes. Raynaldo reste<br />seul. Il grandit. La vie le trimballe, le secoue. Il connaîtra plusieurs<br />foyers : celui d’une grand-mère patriarcale et de ses trois petitesfilles<br />; celui des hommes, de Fernando et de ses fils. Le principe<br />de recouvrement dans ce film consiste à déplier ces seize années<br />d’existence tressées dans l’évidence du réel, pendant et après la<br />dictature de Marcos. La fiction documente, elle propose un point de<br />vue sur l’Histoire à partir d’événements intimes et familiaux. Elle se<br />hausse à la particularité de notre oeil. Car l’Histoire est saisie dans<br />les êtres, sous notre front, prise dans sa dimension individuelle – son<br />traitement est incarné, physique, jamais abstrait. L’Histoire habite le<br />monde et Lav Diaz soumet ce réel à des variations poétiques qui<br />déteignent dans les existences. Pas une des vies qui est en jeu dans<br />les films de Lav Diaz n’est pas soumise aux puissances de l’Histoire.<br />Les images d’archives et les entretiens nombreux qui scandent<br />l’évolution dramatique sont comme autant de pauses chantées<br />par des choeurs. Ce matériau documentaire donne des repères au<br />spectateur, fixe le réel, le jalonne, et par ce biais, pénètre la fiction et<br />la recharge. Car Lav Diaz orchestre un ingénieux va-et-vient entre<br />les événements politiques réels et leurs répercussions dans le récit :<br />Kadyo, l’oncle de Raynaldo, face au chef des guérilleros locaux :<br />« Marcos est au pouvoir depuis 24 ans » ; Kadyo dans une cachette,<br />écoutant l’interview du cinéaste Lino Brocka sur les relations entre<br />le cinéma philippin et le régime de Marcos ; Kadyo assistant à la<br />manifestation d’un mouvement politique de gauche. Mais dans le<br />cours du film, la circulation du fait politique se transmet aussi par<br />l’agencement de ses formes diverses. L’association entre les archives<br />et la fiction ouvre une brèche dans le récit. Le montage les conjugue<br />et les sépare, les combine et les disjoint. Les éléments sont liés les<br />uns aux autres dans l’évidence de la fiction, mais s’interrogent aussi<br />mutuellement et fracturent le réel. Cette intelligence du montage<br />est un chef d’oeuvre d’organisation du discours politique, car il ouvre<br />les points de vues. Lav Diaz n’impose pas une vision qui aplanirait<br />le réel dans une dimension unilatérale, mais rend plutôt compte<br />des contradictions dialectiques inhérentes à la réalité. Chez lui, le<br />politique est poétique, complexe, diffus. Il a pénétré les mailles du<br />réel et c’est au spectateur d’investir son champ de résonances.<br />Il faut écouter ce souffle épique qui ne tarit pas, ces grandes<br />vagues lyriques incrustées dans la surface du plan – faites de<br />noirs et de gris, d’écumes, de silences que charge l’existence<br />des hommes et qui se dilatent dans le quotidien romanesque<br />des personnages. Il faut faire corps avec ces films, il faut se<br />cogner aux flancs fumants de ces monstres – ces films sont des<br />bêtes rugissantes, le mufle chaud, rutilant. Il faut les frapper,<br />les enfourcher, les prendre contre soi, saignantes, pleines de<br />rages, de fureurs, de lances brisées dans le garrot. Il y a un<br />fantastique du réel, ou du moins une mystique, une force qui<br />le tient et le retourne en des visions surnaturelles. C’est dans<br />ce dépassement de la réalité, que Lav Diaz confère au réel<br />des visions déchirées qui le transmuent en une réalité plus<br />profonde, car plus intime, inscrite dans la trajectoire d’une quête<br />sensible pour la vérité. Ce cinéma éveille des vieux fantômes, il<br />les invite à sa table, sur le drap blanc parfaitement repassé de<br />nos songes. Il faut écouter ce bruissement mystérieux qui nous<br />égare, et par lequel pourtant, on nous offre de nous ressaisir et<br />de réévaluer l’intensité de notre rapport au monde.<br />Les grands cinéastes développent une mythologie de la<br />croyance à l’égard du spectateur. Ils ont confiance en nos<br />intuitions, en nos désirs. Et c’est ainsi, par la grâce d’un regard<br />soutenu, que l’on s’approprie ces grands films fleuves, dans la<br />limpidité de leur fait. Ce sont des films qui nous attendent, il<br />faut les habiter.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From Cinema du Reel, March 14, 2008<br /><br /></span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-34772606144519039472009-12-01T03:19:00.000-08:002009-12-01T03:23:52.772-08:00Smutek nad miską ryżu<span style="font-weight:bold;">Anna Kilian <br /></span><br />Z Lavem Diazem rozmawia Anna Kilian<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Pana „Melancholię” ogląda się z rosnącą fascynacją. W miarę jak – warstwa po warstwie – odkrywa pan przed nami prawdę o bohaterach, zżywamy się z nimi do tego stopnia, że trudno nam się z nimi rozstać...</span><br /><br />Lav Diaz: Wspaniale słyszeć taką opinię, chciałem, żeby widzowie tak film odbierali. To ważne dla mnie, bo to długi, ośmiogodzinny obraz. A skoro poruszamy kwestię jego długości, to muszę przyznać, że dziwi mnie, że tak mocno się ją zazwyczaj podkreśla. Film powinien być dziełem sztuki, ocenianym w kontekście swojej jakości, historii, jaką opowiada, i formy, za pomocą której to robi.<br /><br />Przecież utworu muzycznego czy obrazu nie ocenia się pod względem ich rozmiarów. Przykro mi słyszeć, że nawet uniwersyteccy wykładowcy przedmiotów związanych ze sztuką filmową skupiają się przede wszystkim na długości moich projektów. Przy czym „Melancholia” nie jest najdłuższa – „Death in the Land of Encantos” trwa dziewięć godzin, tyle samo „Heremias (Book One: The Legend of the Lizard Princess)” czy „Evolution of a Filipino Family”.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Przedstawia pan troje bohaterów jako prostytutkę, alfonsa i zakonnicę. Zbici z tropu bardzo wiarygodną interpretacją aktorską zostajemy – widzowie – wyprowadzeni w pole, gdyż postaci przybierają nagle inne tożsamości. Czy zamierzał pan dać przekrój filipińskiego społeczeństwa?</span><br /><br />Chciałem pokazać współczesne Filipiny i bohaterów żyjących tu i teraz, ale uwikłanych w tragiczną przeszłość naszego kraju. Alberta, Rina i Julian, a wraz z nimi tysiące Filipińczyków, nigdy nie otrząsnęli się po tym, co spotkało ich rodziny podczas okupacji japońskiej, a potem dyktatury Ferdinanda Marcosa, gdy polityczni przeciwnicy byli porywani i mordowani. Przy tym większość moich współmieszkańców ma bardzo krótką pamięć. Nasi oprawcy nigdy nie zostali osądzeni. Nikogo nie rozliczono z popełnionych zbrodni. Syn Marcosa, Ferdinand Jr., zasiada w Kongresie, a jego matkę Imeldę odznaczono za wkład w rozwój kultury na Filipinach. Filipińczycy są z natury – jak to Malajowie – bierni i apatyczni, nieprzyzwyczajeni do konsekwentnego i zorganizowanego działania.<br /><br />W dodatku – mówię to a propos braku rozliczeń – to bardzo mili i łagodni ludzie, którzy prędzej oddadzą ostatnią miskę ryżu (od którego jestem, jako Filipińczyk, uzależniony) gościowi niż swojemu dziecku. I zawsze się uśmiechają, choć w ich sercach często gości smutek. Na ten filipiński smutek wskazuje tytuł filmu.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Alberta, Rina i Julian stanowią w filmie pomost między przeszłością a teraźniejszością. Czy temu właśnie miało też służyć pokazanie w jednym filmie tradycyjnych tańców i śpiewu w stylu Kundiman oraz punkowego koncertu, pogo i zespołu grającego noise?</span><br /><br />Tak. Dzisiejsze Filipiny to bardzo bogata kultura, której tradycyjne aspekty współistnieją ze współczesnymi. Ale bardzo ważna jest dla każdego kraju jego historia, bez której naród byłby niczym. Dlatego w „Melancholii” znalazła się retrospekcja dotycząca Desaparecidos (nazwa nadawana ludziom porywanym przez siły rządowe różnych krajów, by usunąć ich z życia publicznego – przyp. red.), powiązana z postacią Alberty.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">W pana kraju powstaje dużo bardzo dobrych filmów.<br /></span><br />Rzeczywiście, wielu twórców realizuje filmy, najczęściej techniką cyfrową, bo to najtańszy sposób. Mamy bardzo długą tradycję filmową. Pierwsze obrazy powstawały na Filipinach w kilka lat po paryskiej projekcji braci Lumiere. Niestety, wszystkie zaginęły, bo nigdy nie powstało żadne archiwum zbierające i konserwujące taśmy filmowe.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">A czy istnieje na Filipinach tradycja szkół filmowych? Pan żadnej nie skończył.</span><br /><br />Nigdy nie było u nas takich instytucji edukacyjnych, pojawiły się stosunkowo niedawno. Ja przez wiele lat byłem dziennikarzem filmowym i reporterem, a kiedy dobiłem czterdziestki, w 1998 r. zacząłem kręcić filmy. Nie uczyłem się tego, po prostu wziąłem kamerę do ręki.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Ma pan dość niezwykłe imię. Nie jest chyba filipińskie?</span><br /><br />Rzeczywiście. Mój ojciec jest zdeklarowanym socjalistą zafascynowanym kulturą, a zwłaszcza literaturą rosyjską. Dał mi na imię Ławrentij, ale na szczęście nie po Ławrentiju Berii. Tata z mamą, też socjalistką, poznali się na studiach, a potem pojechali w sam środek dżungli zakładać szkoły dla muzułmańskich dzieci, choć sami nie są religijni.<br /><br />Od tego czasu „środek lasu” rozrósł się do sporych rozmiarów miasta.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From Ostatnia Aktualizacja, Warsaw, 30-11-2009</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-77493497955633752342009-12-01T03:02:00.000-08:002009-12-01T03:10:05.204-08:00Mindanao: a work-in-progress<span style="font-weight:bold;">Ni Lav Diaz<br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Rasyunal sa iksi at kawalan ng image</span><br /><br />Sa simula, dilim at titulo lang ang bubulaga, at hindi pa man nakakahikab, tapos<br />na. Dilim at titulo lang—<span style="font-style:italic;">Mindanao: a work-in-progress.</span> Bagamat magkakaroon <br />ng ebolusyon ang installation. Sa durasyon ng exhibit, magkakaroon ng images,<br />padagdag nang padagdag. At sa huling lingo, maaaring isa nang buong pelikula<br />ang mapapanuod. Organic ang proseso ng installation. Gaya nang pagiging<br />organic ng proseso sa paghahanap ng kapayapaan at sagot sa problema sa<br />Mindanao—ginamitan ng lakas military mula pa kay Marcos (1971), panunuhol<br />sa mga lider Muslim (ilang bilyon na ang natapon), nakipagkape at wine si<br />Imelda kay Khadaffi sa loob ng tent sa disyerto sa Tripoli, nagtayo ng<br />autonomous region at yumaman at nakulong si Misuari, pinasasawsaw pa sa<br />usapin ang Malaysia, Indonesia at mga Arabo sa usaping dapat ay panloob<br />lamang, ang sirkus ng MOA na nauwi na naman sa pagdanak ng dugo.<br /><br />Wala na sa kumbensyon ng Hollywood ang cinema. Malayo na ang cinema bilang<br />isang sining. Hindi lang negosyo ang cinema. At hindi lang ito naratibong<br />beginning-middle-end. At kailangan bang maraming dekorasyon o maingay ang<br />isang installation para magmukhang magaling? Hindi ba mas mahalagang<br />tingnan ang diskursong inihahain ng isang obra?<br /><br />Sa nag-iisip, maliwanag ang sinasaad ng Mindanao: a work-in-progress. At kung<br />nag-iisip nga ang titingin, napakahaba at tila walang katapusan—matagal nang<br />work-in-progress ang Mindanao, at hindi pa nakikita kung saan hahantong ang<br />lahat, kung saan matatapos ang mga diskurso at tunggalian. O, may katapusan<br />nga ba ang masalimuot na isyung Mindanao?<br />Sabi nga ng isang Muslim na datu sa amin sa Maguindanao kung tatanungin mo<br />kung hanggang saan ang kanyang lupain: “Taman sa mailay ningka.” (Hanggang<br />sa abot ng paningin mo.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Pyudalismo</span><br /><br />Ang pangungusap na ito ng datu ay isang katotohanan sa Mindanao. Isang<br />pundamental na isyu ang pyudalismo sa Mindanao, lalo na sa mga pook na<br />kinasasangkutan ng mga tinatawag nilang sigwa ng Muslim-Kristiyano, o sa mas<br />malawak na diskurso ng pulitika at ideyolohiya, ang rebolusyon ng Bangsa Moro.<br />Sa kakulangan ng cultural/sociological/historical perspective ng mga tinatawag<br />na nasasangkot sa usapin sa sigwa sa Mindanao, tila hindi lumilitaw ang isyu ng<br />pyudalismo. Mahirap ipaliwanag kung bakit hindi nagagalaw ang isyung ito.<br />Kulang nga ba sa kaalaman ang mga henyo ng gobyerno sa isyung ito?<br />Tinatalakay ba ng Moro National Liberation Front ang isyung ito? Pinag-uusapan<br />ba nila ang pagwasak sa pyudalismo bilang isa sa mga malalaking sagot para sa<br />kapayapaan sa Mindanao?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sistemang Datu</span><br /><br />Saglit tayong bumalik sa kasaysayan ng arkipelagong ito, na ngayo’y tinatawag<br />na bayang Pilipinas.<br /><br />Mayroon tayong tinatawag na pre-Mohamedan at pre-Hispanic period. Ito’y<br />noong panahong purong Malay at aborigines pa ang mga isla.<br />Ang pre-Mohamedan period ay ang panahong hindi pa nagiging Muslim ang mga<br />tribung Maranao (Lanao), Maguindanao (sa dating Cotabato na ngayo’y nahahati<br />na sa mga probinsyang Maguindanao, North Cotabato, South Cotabato, Sultan<br />Kudarat at Sarangani) at Tausog (Sulo, Basilan, Tawi-tawi). Ang mga tribung<br />Maranao, Maguindanao, Tausog at ilang bahagi ng mga Badjao ang mga unang<br />tinatawag na ‘conquered tribes’ sa arkipelago sa isyu ng relihiyon. Sila ang mga<br />naging Muslim na mga tribung Malay sa arkipelago. At kung totoo nga, at hindi<br />pa naman napapatunayan, ang ilang Tagalog sa bahaging Tondo na sakop noon<br />ni Rajah Soliman, ay naging Muslim din. Isang Rajah din daw sa isang balangay<br />(barangay) sa bahaging Tarlac kasama ng kanyang nasasakupan ang naging<br />Muslim. Ang mga Muslim na nananahanan ngayon sa dulong timog ng Palawan<br />ay sinasabing mga migrasyon mula sa Sulu, Tawi-Tawi at Basilan.<br /><br />Bago pa man dumating ang mga misyunerong Muslim sa Mindanao, kultura na<br />ng mga Malay ang sistemang Datu. Ang kultrang ito ay umaabot sa buong<br />kapuluan ng naging Pilipinas, hanggang sa mga Malay sa mga bayang tinatawag<br />ngayong Indonesia, Malaysia at Brunei. At ang sistemang ito ay napanatili<br />hanggang sa kasalukuyan sa mga tribung yumakap sa relihiyon at paniniwalang<br />Muslim o Islam. Nawala ang sistemang ito sa mga Malay sa arkipelago na naging<br />Kristiyano o Katoliko. Bagamat ang pyudalismo naman ay nananatili pa rin<br />(hindi nga ba’t may CARP o programang land reform ang gobyerno para ayusin<br />daw ito?).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Maguindanao</span><br /><br />Isang particular na kaso ang probinsiya ng Maguindanao. Ang malawak at<br />mayamang probinsiyang ito ay nobenta porsiyentong Muslim ang papulasyon at<br />iilang datu lamang ang nagmamay-ari ng mga lupain. Ang mga tradisyunal na<br />mga datu dito ay ang mga pamilyang Sinsuat, Piang, Paglas, Ampatuan,<br />Dilangalen, Matalam, Pendatun. Napanatili ng mga pamilyang datu ang kanilang<br />kontrol sa malalawak na bahagi ng probinsiya hanggang sa kasalukuyan.<br />Malaking bahagi ng papulasyon ay mga nasasakupan pa rin ng mga datu.<br />Lumaki ako sa isang bayan ng Maguindanao na apat na pamilyang datu lamang<br />ang nagmamay-ari ng napakalalawak na mga lupain. Karamihan nang mga<br />Muslim ay tagasunod at tauhan lamang ng mga datu. May ilang Muslim naman na<br />may maliliit na lupain. Ang mga Kristiyanong nahalo, katulad namin, ay mga<br />settlers na bumili ng lupain mula sa mga datu. Sa kabundukan naroon ang mga<br />Bilaan. Noon pa man, nakikita ko na ang katotohanang sa mga pook na pyudal–<br />labis-labis ang kahirapan. Marami akong kababata at kaibigang Muslim. Sa<br />panahong nag-aaral kami sa elementarya, sa paaralang itinayo ng aking mga<br />magulang, marami sa aking mga kababatang Muslim ang pumapasok na wala<br />man lang tsinelas o sapatos. Kasama na ang kawalan ng maayos na pananamit. At<br />kawalan din ng makain o ng tamang pagkain. Marami rin akong kababatang<br />Kristiyanong ganito ang kalagayan. Bagamat napansin ko noon pa man ang<br />kaibahan ng mahirap na Muslim at mahirap na Kristiyano. Ang mahirap na<br />Kristiyano, ilang panahon lang ay umaayos ang buhay dahil nagkakaroon sila ng<br />pagkakataong baguhin ang kanilang kalagayan kapag nagkakaroon na sila ng<br />lupain. Samantalang ang mga mahihirap na Muslim ay tila nananatili sa kanilang<br />kalagayan. Nakita ko ang ugat ng suliraning ito—wala silang lupain o walang<br />pagkakataong magkaroon ng lupain. Migrasyon ang naging solusyon ng ilan.<br />Gaya ng maraming mamamayan, pagpunta sa mga kalunsuran at ibang bansa ang<br />kasagutan.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dialektikal</span><br /><br />Kung pag-aaralan ang mga isyung tinatalakay hinggil sa suliranin sa Mindanao,<br />mula pa noong panahon ni Marcos hanggang ngayong panahon ni Aroyo,<br />kapuna-punang hindi man lang natatalakay ang pyudal na sistemang ito.<br />Iniiwasan ba ito? O sadyang hindi nila napapansin. Kung iniiwasan ito, lalong<br />walang pupuntahan ang mga diskurso dahil isa itong katotohanan na dapat<br />harapin. At kung hindi napapansin, malaking katanungan ang katapatan ng mga<br />nasasangkot—mga tao ng gobyerno, komunidad at ng MILF.<br /><br />Kung diskurso ng emansipasyon ng mga mamamayang Muslim sa Mindanao ang<br />usapin, marahil pinakamalaking isyu ang pyudalismo.<br />Ito ang malaking katanungan na dapat iharap sa mga nasasangkot, sa komunidad<br />ng mga Muslim, sa MILF at gobyerno:<br /><br />Kaya bang buwagin o wasakin ang sistemang Datu?<br /><br />Sa dialektikal na aplikasyon, narito ang sagot dito:<br /><br />Buwagin at wasakin ang sistemang Datu.<br /><br />Kung may pagbabagong dapat maganap sa pook ng mga Muslim sa Mindanao, ito<br />ang isa sa mga unang hakbang. Kung may rebolusyong dapat maganap sa pook<br />ng mga Muslim sa Mindanao, ito ang isa sa mga dapat gawin. Harapin na ang<br />katotohanang ito. Itigil na ang mga pseudo-intelektuwal at pseudo-political na<br />sirkus ng mga diskurso. Pseudo-intelektuwal ang karamihan ng diskurso dahil<br />masalimuot o wala namang katalinuhan ang inihahain nilang mga retorika at<br />resolusyon. Pseudo-political ang karamihan ng diskurso dahil hindi naman<br />nasasangkot ang kamalayan ng nakararami at lihis sa katotohanan ang mga<br />retorika at agenda ng mga partidong nasasangkot.<br /><br />At kung iaangat natin sa antas ng macro-political ang isyu ng pyudalismo, ito rin<br />ang pundamental na suliranin ng kabuuan ng Pilipinas mula’t mula pa.<br />Ang totoong rebolusyon sa bayang ito ay ang emansipasyon ng mamamayan sa<br />kahirapan. At pagwasak ng pyudalismo ang isa sa mga pinakamalalaking<br />hakbang patungo rito.<br /><br />Ang rebolusyong kultural naman ng sining ay dapat tumugon sa pagwasak sa<br />kamangmangan ng nakararami sa mga pundamental na isyung kinasasangkutan<br />ng kanilang kalagayan, at ng kalagayan ng bayan. Responsibilidad mula sa mga<br />alagad ng sining ang hinihingi ng pahanon para makapag-ambag sa pagpapalaya<br />sa kamalayan ng bayan. Dito nasasaad ang pananaw ng bagong cinema. Ito ang<br />aking tugon sa eksibisyung <span style="font-style:italic;">Designing Peace: The Role of Imagination in<br />Conflict Resolution.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Note: Palalawakin ang mga isyung ito sa susunod na pagtalakay natin ng konsepto ng ilang bahagi ng Mindanao bilang isang Bangsa Moro, ng konsepto ng Pilipinas bilang isang bayan ng mga Pilipino, ng konsepto ng demokrasya sa Pilipinas, ng konsepto ng Pilipino bilang isang nasyon. May Bangsa Moro nga ba? May bayang Pilipino nga ba? May tinatawag na bang nasyon ng Pilipino? May tamang pangunawa ba tayo sa tamang kahulugan ng pulitika, ng demokrasya? Bakit kulang sa dialektikal na pananaw ang mga diskurso?<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Written by Lav Diaz as a rationale to his participation to the La Salle University installation, Designing Peace: The Role of Imagination in Conflict Resolution</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-19857445145857123562009-10-31T16:01:00.002-07:002009-10-31T16:05:27.916-07:00When Lav Met Guy<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Bayani San Diego Jr.<br /></span><br />Talk of this film uniting two superstars of Philippine cinema, Nora Aunor and Lav Diaz, is making the rounds in blogs.<br /><br />Diaz confirmed this with Inquirer Entertainment, saying the movie, “Reclusion Perpetua,” has been in the works for the past three years.<br /><br />(Aunor is also set to shoot “Do Filipinos Cry in America?” next year, according to its director, Celso Ad. Castillo.)<br /><br />Diaz finally met with Aunor recently in Santa Monica, California.<br /><br />“I went to see Nora,” Diaz explained, “to see how committed she was to the project. We talked at length about it.”<br /><br />Diaz liked what he saw and heard: “She’s committed.”<br /><br />He calls it a “collective” effort: “Her fans are raising money. If we meet the target, we’ll be shooting soon.”<br /><br />Meanwhile, Diaz is off to the Thessaloniki film fest in Greece, where he’s a jury member and where his latest short, “Butterflies Have No Memories,” will be featured in a retrospective on Pinoy indies.<br /><br />Then, “Butterflies” and his Venice-winning feature, “Melancholia,” will be screened in Warsaw.<br /><br />Diaz received the Indie Spirit award in the just-concluded Cinemanila fest.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What was the meeting with Nora like?<br /></span><br />It was cool. She was in jeans and rubber shoes, no makeup. The sun was shining so bright that day, but a cool breeze, like Baguio’s, was hovering. We had a late lunch and a few beers. We realized we were in LA’s gay district because we kept seeing men holding hands while strolling, and women lustily kissing. Nora joked, “Alam ko na ngayon kung saan pupunta (Now, I know where to go).”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What is “Reclusion Perpetua” about?</span><br /><br />Nora’s character is looking for her husband, who disappeared in the US.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why is it important to you to make a film with Nora now?<br /></span><br />It is a cultural issue for me. It is dialectical. Nora Aunor is a Filipino icon, arguably our greatest actress. So, on the level of cultural discourse, she is very much a part of our struggle. I am not a fan ... though my mother is a fanatic. As a cultural worker, I acknowledge her importance.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why is it important for today’s audiences to see her act again?<br /></span><br />Any respectable Nora Aunor film can be used to educate our people. This is my responsibility, to use the medium to create a greater aesthetic and socio-cultural discourse for our people. The most potent modern medium now is cinema. Why not use an incredibly potent icon in the process?<br /><br />I am using the term “use,” or “paggamit” in Tagalog, in a very dialectical way. That answers the need for a Nora Aunor film. I am not doing a propaganda film, though, not a Nora rah-rah movie. The film’s core shall remain aesthetic. This is still free cinema. It can run 40 hours.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Why is it described as a collective effort?<br /></span><br />Everybody is working almost pro bono. Her responsible fans are doing patak-patak (passing the hat). We will work on people’s donations. I am actually announcing it now: We need help! The objective is greater cinema, not profit. Should money come later, it would just be consequential.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">How do you know Nora?</span><br /><br />In Cotabato, as a kid, I experienced the phenomenon. It was crazy. My mom had some of her records at home.<br /><br />The screenings of Nora Aunor movies were out of this world. You can actually see truckloads of people arriving in front of movie houses—people from the barrios. They’d be bringing kalderos and platos.<br /><br />Every time Nora appeared onscreen, there would be screaming, wailing, shrieking. Some would faint. You couldn’t breathe or move. It wasn’t just standing room; it was bumper-to-bumper, sweat-to-sweat, laway-to-laway, bahala na kung mamatay (spit-to-spit, who cares if we die).<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What are your favorite Nora Aunor movies?<br /></span><br />I love Ishmael Bernal’s “Himala.” She’s also great in Mario O’Hara’s “Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos.”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What’s the latest on your other projects?<br /></span><br />“Babae ng Hangin” is still evolving, yet again. I am following new threads to finish it. I submitted a more than three-hour rough cut to Venice but some problems ensued, so I pulled it out. But I’m really thankful that it happened, as I now have a clearer view of how to finish the film in the aesthetic realm.<br /><br />The Gregoria de Jesus project remains a work in progress. I tried to do some test and pre-production, but I just couldn’t push it properly. The hardest part is finding the right Gregoria de Jesus.<br /><br />I am also making this call to the brave ones: If you think you can be the great Oryang, please submit your résumé and tell us why. Marami pang karakter na puwede sa lahat (There are other characters for everyone else), if they know the story of the Philippine Revolution.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What’s your take on the retro on Filipino films in the Thessaloniki fest in Greece?<br /></span><br />It’s good for RP cinema. They can’t just dismiss us now.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">What should Filipino filmmakers do to sustain this international interest?<br /></span><br />Just keep working hard, but not so much because of vanity. Everyone wants to be a rock star ... but there’s more to be done in the aesthetic domain. If we really want a revolution, we must work harder and dig deeper. The real revolution that can save our devastated culture is a battle to destroy ignorance and apathy. This issue is a cultural struggle. Let’s examine our history as a people. Why is our culture so dysfunctional? Let’s examine the past and present.<br /><br />Just ask the obvious questions: How could we have allowed more than 300 years of Spanish rule ... almost 100 years of American imperialism ... 20 years of Marcos dictatorship ... nine years of Macapagal-Arroyo?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">With the advent of digital technology, how has filmmaking changed for Filipinos in the last five years?<br /></span><br />The last five years have been a watershed. It created greater dynamism on the part of practitioners. Emancipation of the process was delivered by the digital age. We’ve finally destroyed feudalism in cinema. That alone is a huge leap. Greater freedom could hopefully lead to more visionary works. But let us be careful and cautious, because with greater freedom comes greater responsibility.<br /><br />From the <span style="font-style:italic;">Philippine Daily Inquirer</span>, October 25, 2009santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-19314023876511040932009-10-31T15:43:00.000-07:002010-04-24T16:33:00.474-07:00Melancholia<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Francis Cruz</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Diaz's eight-hour meditation on the persistence and immobility of sadness is painful and, paradoxically, exhilarating to watch. Painful because we know of the military persecution of leftist and progressive groups in the Philippines, ongoing even unto this day; exhilarating because Diaz, above all Filipino film-makers still active, illuminates recent Philippine history with lighting bolt of his imagination."</span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">-- Noel Vera<span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span><br /><br />Lav Diaz's <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span> is an eight-hour meditation of sorts on the maddening persistence of sadness in this world, can logically be divided into three parts and an epilogue. The first part details the experiences in Sagada of Julian (Perry Dizon), Alberta (Angeli Bayani) and Rina (Malaya Cruz) as they refashion themselves into different drastic identities as part of the radical process that Julian created in order for them to cope with the losses of their loved ones. The second part is set in Manila, with Julian and Alberta living their real lives and addressing the scenarios and situations that accompany their melancholic predicament. The third part is the prologue to Julian, Alberta and Rina's prolonged tale of sadness, where deep within the forests of Mindoro, a band of leftist fighters, which includes Alberta's husband Renato (Roeder Camanag), is struggling with the psychological and spiritual torture of both practical and existential defeat while being hunted down by military operatives.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia </span>is most probably Diaz's most difficult film for the lone reason that Diaz affords little or no comfort to his viewers. There is very little humor to the film and the story, grounded by philosophies and ideas that might be too personal or hard to grasp, branches into different and sometimes convoluted directions. However, as with most of Diaz's films, the reward of completing one is not in the pleasure of sitting through eight hours of his trademark black and white aesthetics and seemingly endless ramblings and conversations, but in the lingering and often valid points that Diaz would have you digesting and exploring for a far longer period of time.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">I. Transformations and Transgressions in Sagada<br /></span><br />Alberta becomes Jenine, a prostitute who does massages for 300 pesos and other services for more. Julian turns into a pimp who for the right price can stage live sex shows within the privacy of a hotel room. Rina is a Catholic nun who wanders around town with her charity basket, begging for money for charity. They would bump into each other on occasions: with Jenine handily getting some change to put into the nun's charity basket before fleeting away to her destination, or the pimp taking photographs of the nun before mouthing slogans about the futility of living in a country and a world that is practically hell, or Jenine being courted by the pimp to do business for him. In Sagada, they do not know each other. Though in reality, they are all survivors who have subscribed to the extremist idea that in order to cope with the fact of having a loved one disappear and be presumed dead, they should shed their identities and see the world through the eyes of another.<br /><br />The three would eventually meet at the same time as the three of them seek shelter from the rain inside an abandoned building in the middle of the town. The line that separates truth and fiction are blurred, as Jenine and the pimp recount their respective histories as if the personalities they inhabited are real. It may be argued that fictionalizing one's life story may be an easy feat. However, it is the disturbing direction of their conversation when the nun arrives in the abandoned building that gives the prolonged scene a harrowing distinction. The pimp starts cornering the nun, berating her of the futility of her efforts within the spectrum of evil that has consumed the world. In the background, Jenine is amused at the lopsided confrontation, wherein the nun coyly mutters meaningless quotes while the pimp expounds on the the world's state of hopelessness. Defeated, the nun escapes the scene as the two admitted sinners rejoice in their triumph.<br /><br />The nun is the only one to surrender and give up. It seems that in a world that has been enveloped by sadness, it is the meek, and pure that fall first as victims. In Rina's transformation as a nun, she has seen the world from the vantage point of innocence, and the continuing acts of evildoing, apathy, and madness may have dealt upon her despair and hopelessness. Her transformation seems easiest as compared to being a whore or a pimp, since it seems less taxing to roam the streets begging for alms. However, the transgression in her existence, upon seeing the state of the world through the eyes of a person who was tasked to save it or at least ease its pain and being unable to do anything, is far more damaging. Her transformation deviates the most from the world. Her assumed identity is an aberration, especially in a landscape that has forgotten virtues.<br /><br />Diaz posits an intriguing concept: that survival is earned by those who swear allegiance with truth, and truth is what we see in this world: melancholia, death, amorality, and atheism. There is truth in sex, the way the pimp's sex performers copulate in the total absence of love, hate, or any other emotion. There is truth in prostitution, the way our bodies have turned into mere commodities and stripped of any religion-labeled value. The nun, at one point of the segment, visits a widowed mother she had the opportunity to converse with while begging for alms. Inside the church, the mother sings a melody while the nun observes in the background before leaving. Outside, she walks away, answers her phone and tells her friend that she is okay. During that moment, upon being exposed the utter futility of faith, she finds a semblance of comfort, although temporary since later, she would take her own life in a final act of despair.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">II. Patricia's Song</span><br /><br />Diaz forwards the story further, detailing the lives of Julian and Alberta weeks after their stints as pimp and whore, respectively, in Sagada. Julian is a publisher in Manila who often dreams of her dead wife Patricia (Cooky Chua). Alberta, on the other hand, is a school principal who while coping with the disappearance of her husband, has to take care of her ward Hannah (Yanyan Taa), a teenager who was rendered parentless when both her parents were abducted and killed by government officials. Hannah, to address her situation, repels Alberta's acts of kindness by repeatedly escaping from her protection and prostituting herself.<br /><br />Julian chats with an old friend (Bodjie Pascua), an author who pitches his manuscript for publication. In their conversation about the story of Julian's friend's book, Diaz expounds his passion for cinema, correlating his philosophies on truth with art. According to the friend (whose language is not dissimilar to Diaz's), our basic concept of Philippine cinema has been grounded on lies and escapism. The only way to dispel this harmful imposition against culture is through a drastic change, fueled by pain and passion as the main character of the book, a famed director who after losing his lover, reforms into a producer of independent films while acknowledging his homosexuality, has gone through.<br /><br />In Julian's dream, Patricia sings of her endless search against the backdrop of coldness and pain in the world. The song sets the mood and tone of the film. In a sense, the song summarizes the characters' need to search: for their lost loved ones, for a reason behind the sadness and the madness of the world, an impossible happiness or contentment, for Hannah, for truth. Melancholia's landscape is familiar (city streets, humble abodes, riverside parks), but its characters are placed in a situation where they have turned into desperate searchers, fueled at first by grief and longing and then by some other force or motivation that is as elusive as their targets. The repercussions of their exercise in Sagada are faint (although Rina's suicide becomes the trigger of Julian's deep contemplation) if not damaging as opposed to being the cure to their collective sadness. Even the discovery of the remains of some victims of political killings failed to release them from their collective burdens. In the end, they are still looking for sense and direction and all at once, the familiar places start to look like alien landscapes, enunciated by the violence of the rain or the discomfort of the night. These places convert into limbo.<br /><br />This persistent searching is true to the theme of Diaz's cinema, which would often allude to some kind of redemption or release in the conclusion, whether it be in the form of Juan Mijares' acceptance of his and his nation's past in <span style="font-style:italic;">Batang West Side </span>(West Side Avenue, 2001), or the wayward oxcart-driver's deal with God in <span style="font-style:italic;">Heremias</span> (2006), or Hamin's release from the world's madness through death in <span style="font-style:italic;">Kagadanan sa Banwaan Ning Mga Engkanto</span> (Death in the Land of Encantos, 2007). However, in <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span>, the characters are trapped in limbo (in fact, an offshoot of Melancholia which makes use of some footage made for the film is aptly entitled <span style="font-style:italic;">Purgatorio</span> (2008), referring to the eternal state of being neither here or there of the family left behind by the victims of political killings) and are seemingly in a directionless search for something that can never be found.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">III. No Redemption for the Poet-Warrior</span><br /><br />Renato writes in his diary "Why is there so much sadness and too much sorrow in this world? Is happiness just a concept? Is living just a process to measure man's pain? Are we ever going to see each other again? I'm not afraid of death. I'm more afraid that I won't see you again.'" Renato, a leftist activist who left his wife to fight a war of principles, is now being chased into the forest by military operatives who want him and his comrades silenced.<br /><br />Diaz painstakingly details the final few days of this band of men who are merely prolonging their assured demise under their enemies. Some of them start to falter, giving way to insanity and defeat, enveloped by the lurking senselessness of their struggle amidst a world drowned by indifference and apathy. He writes further "I now realized the lyrical madness to this struggle. It is all about sadness. It is about my sadness. It is about the sorrow of my people. I cannot romanticize the futility of it all. Even the majestic beauty of this island could not provide an answer to this hell. There is no cure to this sadness."<br /><br />Renato writes words of despair. Strangled by his impending capture and death, he starts to rationalize the bitter truth that beneath the illusions and promises dealt by momentous beauty, emotions, and moments of fleeting happiness, is a world that is barren and replete of hope. His and his comrades' deaths come swiftly in a moment where one of them, in an act of desperation, expresses surrender. Their deaths did not release them from purgatory. Instead, as we have learned from the film's previous scenes in Sagada and Manila, their deaths are black holes that pull loved ones into a void, a metaphoric limbo where they undergo futile searches for logic and reason, goals that have been rendered implausible by the realities of pain and suffering in this world .<br /><br />The sequence in the forest does not provide redemption for Alberta either. She still does not know where her husband's remains were left. She has not read the words Renato has written in his diary. All she knows is that her husband is gone and most probably dead. There is yet no closure for the victims, only closure in Diaz's circle of melancholia, where the man-made, or more accurately, governmental act of depravity and cowardice has caused the never-ending cycle of sadness and madness to begin.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">IV. Epilogue<br /></span><br />The riverside park at nighttime, dimly lit by streetlamps that scarcely dot the walkpath, serves as Diaz's stage for his confounding finale. Alberta searches for Julian among the men and women (performance artists who contort their bodies into unusual shapes and positions) that populate the park's spaces. Cryptic phrases, recited in hypnotic cadence, are thrown in reply to Alberta's fervent questioning. She finally locates Julian, alone and seated in the dark, dissheveled in appearance and obviously in the same trance-like state of the park's curious residents. From Alberta and Julian's conversation, we can glean that Julian has turned into a monster, consumed by his own search for the truth, eaten up by the pain and sadness that he has tried to cope with, and ironically, embraced it to create. Julian has become God, the personification of the melancholy and insanity of the world, the only things that can be labeled as definite truths in a world that deceives us with illusions of joy and beauty. He walks away, claiming that he is no longer Julian. Alberta is left alone.<br /><br />Although the film can be seen as Diaz's definitive statement (and it probably is, Diaz being very vocal on politics) on the desaparecidos, the numbers of which have risen during Macapagal-Arroyo's term as president, and the families they have left in stasis, there is definitely something deeper: a philosophical or existential query that Diaz throws to his viewers on the basis of the world's current status. <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span> aims to expound on truth by distorting it (where Julian, Alberta and Rina assume fake identities in Sagada as coping mechanism to battle their sadness), disrespecting it (where the trio start living and believing their assumed identities), mutating it (where the trio can no longer discern the line that divides reality and illusion), and finally, spiting it (where truth, as personified by Julian, shows itself as pitiful and pathetic).<br /><br />From the blog <span style="font-style:italic;">Lessons From The School of Inattention</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-11238203774327605762009-10-31T15:22:00.001-07:002009-10-31T15:25:24.072-07:00Agonistes (work-in-progress)By Northern Portrait<br /><br />The ancient Greeks invented and defined the term apropos of our everyday fate. Agony. Ours is one born out of a myriad of cataclysms – both natural and auto-inflicted. Lav Diaz’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Agonistes</span>, an admitted work-in-progress but already fully formed, meditates on the Filipino’s most pressing worldly struggle, his struggle to break out of material poverty and the non-material consequences of poverty. Hints, however, point to a more eschatological theme – the centrality or the simultaneity of the spiritual struggle.<br /><br />Directing from his own script, Diaz transposes the ancient term agonistes to latter-day Philippines. He singles out the classic strugglers of contemporary times, the working-class men and the peasants, to shoulder grinding poverty. In truth, it can be said that the agonist has been a favorite fixture of Diaz’s other films: Heremias is both agonized and anguished, so is Hamin in Death in the Land of Encantos, tortured and demented at once. Epic but individual in scope, mythological and biblical in character, Diaz’s stories are veritable stories of struggles, sagas of agony.<br /><br />Agonistes opens with a grandiose sequence of robust buildings under construction in Manila. This is the magnificence that, on a sudden, contrasts with the slumped figure of one construction worker, a young man named Juan. As he narrates what he has witnessed to Manoling, an older, brotherly fellow worker, he has been traumatized by the sight of one of his co-workers being buried alive in wet concrete at the construction site. But the occupational dangers are not the end of it – the rainy season soon floods the metropolis and makes it impossible for them to reach their workplace.<br /><br />These two become so desperate that, over a drinking session, they latch on to a kind of Pascalian wager. Manoling has revealed a secret of treasure supposed to be buried in his family’s land somewhere in Bikol. If they find it, they are set for life. If not, it’s just a matter of a few days’ work and a matter of looking a little silly, perhaps. They aren’t even thinking of that: Manoling is just “tired” of the daily grind.<br /><br />Quitting their jobs, they emerge in Bikol one day, purchase digging equipment and get to work. They meet Manoling’s brother who farms the land but whose wife Loleng is terminally ill with a lung disease. As the trenches deepen, Juan and Manoling only manage to turn up rusty metals and an old military boot. Manoling’s brother seems content to live a farmer’s life and jokes in the background about a share of the spoils. At dusk, all of them often – including the bed-ridden Loleng -- gather to watch the magnificent – otherworldly? – sunset.<br /><br />Agonistes is a miserabilist ode to materialism – or an oblique one to spiritual “reorienting.” Or perhaps, their unresolved dialectic. As the almost Syssiphian diggings go on, the crash and crunch of shovels against sand and gravel alternate with the sound of Loleng’s deathly and fatal coughing. As Juan and Manoling pursue their treasurely dreams, they seem oblivious to the specter of death, the possibility of afterlife. Like a colossal god, Mayon Volcano towers in the background to shame their pointless efforts. The Pascalian wager of the search for treasure can thus be read as an allegory on misplaced faith itself, the pursuit of false gods. <br /><br />Even in this rough cut, Agonistes holds up as an excellent film. The layers of meaning are already robust. The simplistic notion, for instance, of the materialistic agonist (represented by Juan and Manoling) is elevated by the presence of other kinds of agonists: Loleng, the terminally ill agonist whose struggle is physical illness and presumably coming to terms with her faith; and Manoling’s brother, outwardly content, but something else deep down.<br /><br />It’s a world of lingering shadows, and Diaz complements his classic themes with black and white cinematography. It serves him well again – appropriately eerie and reminiscent, among others, of the work of Bela Tarr. Diaz’s compositions are painterly -- he must have studied classic portraiture in preparation for this -- which reinforces the timelessness and universality of his themes, whether it is a reckoning of the ills of the contemporary Filipino or not. Diaz’s work will transcend the borders of time and space and nationality, our agony aunt for all time.<br /><br />From the blog <span style="font-style:italic;">the persistence of vision</span>, October 26, 2009santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-22627152586562537222009-10-31T15:15:00.000-07:002009-10-31T15:33:02.895-07:00Walang Alaala ang mga Paruparo<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Film Angel</span><br /><br />Tasked to create a short film for an omnibus project of the Jeonju International Film Festival (JIFF), Lav Diaz came up with the 59-minute film, <span style="font-style:italic;">Butterflies Have No Memories</span>. He is always pushing his films to the limit. A minute more and it would no longer have been considered a short film. However, the JIFF organizers trimmed it down to 40 minutes in order to make it fit in with two other short films. The longer version is available in the DVD box set released by JIFF.<br /><br />In the extremely loaded film Butterflies Have No Memories, a bearded man named Ferdinand ‘Pedring’ Belleza is yearning for the return of mining in his town. He worked as chief security officer of a multinational mining company for decades. When it closed down, he lost a well-paying job, as well as his family.<br /><br />The long-legged beauty Martha is a scion of the mining owners. The family closed the mining company after toxins heavily polluted the river. Their hasty departure turned the former prosperous place into a ghost town.<br /><br />The return of fair-skinned Martha fuels irritations among local residents. She is likened to the so-called snow from Canada (mine tailings) that triggers skin rashes among the residents. Her former playmates, Carol and Willy, no longer have time to accommodate the young Canadian lady. They are so busy doing household chores or eking out a living. It is ironic that Martha, named after the Biblical character known for her hospitality, is treated badly during her visit.<br /><br />There is a tinge of envy for the rich, single, and carefree visitor. Some people are more hostile. Pedring hatches a plan to kidnap Martha. His love for money reigns supreme over memories of good times with the family of Martha.<br /><br />The short film alludes to the destructive effects of mining in Marinduque. Mine tailings caused the biological death of Boac River in 1996. The mining company left the place after decades of operations. Subsequent proposals to re-open the mining site are repelled by the Church and environmentalists.<br /><br />The hellish effects of mining/treasure hunting were earlier tackled by Diaz in his majestic epic story E<span style="font-style:italic;">bolusyon Ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino.</span> A female character from the film admonishes her husband to give up mining. 'It is hell,' said the sight-impaired woman. Indeed, the mining area became a burial ground for gold prospectors and treasure hunters. Diaz will return once more to the issue of treasure hunting in a film project titled Agonistes.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Butterflies Have No Memories</span> contains elements one would expect from a Lav Diaz film. Shot in bleak monochrome, the abbreviated film includes a couple of long takes. The lush ambient sound is also here along with scenes featuring animals/insects. I always look forward to the last two elements, ambient sound and inclusion of animals. They play a big part in making Diaz’s films so natural and realistic.<br /><br />What I didn’t expect is the peculiar, dream-like ending. It features three adult men donning Moriones masks. Their epiphanic encounter with a swarm of butterflies triggers a change of heart for one of them. The sublime last shot is that of a prostrated young man in the middle of the forest while a pair of Roman soldiers looks on.<br /><br />Lav Diaz is truly a great filmmaker and storyteller, equally adept with short features and epic stories. <span style="font-style:italic;">Butterflies Have No Memories</span> is his best short film so far and one of his most symbol-laden films. It is a wonderful amalgam of mundane and insane images.<br /><br />From the blog <span style="font-style:italic;">the persistence of vision</span>, October 30, 2009santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-20992969684186859952009-10-15T17:20:00.000-07:002010-12-18T12:34:42.115-08:00"Pula, Puti at saka Blu at marami pang Korol"<span style="font-weight:bold;">Ni Lav Diaz</span><br /><br /><br />Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature<br />Short Story<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"Kahirapan ang pinakamasahol na uri ng karahasan."<br />-- Mahatma Gandhi</span><br /><br />Nalulungkot lang siya kaya siya ganun, sabi ni Nenet, Dyong at Toto. Pero hindi siya umiiyak. Sanlinggo na. Hindi, siyam na araw na. Pansiyam ngayon.<br /><br />Tapos na ang dusa. Tinapos niya. Pero naghihirap ang loob niya. Hindi siya matahimik.<br /><br />Gusto niyang isiping tapos na, sa wakas, pilit pinaluluwag ang dibdib, pero hindi matapos. Matay man niyang gawin, naroroon pa rin, lumalambong, nangangamoy, nambubulahaw. Isang linggo na siyang lumilipad, hindi, siyam na araw na nga pala, pero kapit-tukong kinakalmot pa rin ang katinuan niya. Ayaw bumitiw, hindi kaya ng happenings.<br /><br />'Yung amoy. Hindi niya makaya, hindi mabata. Sa kasusuka ay wala na siyang maisuka. Malapot na laway na lamang ang lumalabas. Yung amoy. Nakaangkla sa kasuluk-sulukan ng kanyang pangamoy, kahit patung-patong nang singhot ng solben. Parang tumitindi pa nga ang lansa.<br /><br />Yung sigaw. Nakalulunos, nakapangingilabot. Kumintal na yata sa utak niya. Patuloy na umaalingawngaw. Sanlinggo na. Hindi, siyam na araw na. Ayaw siyang patulugin, kahit kunukulubot at tinutuyot na ng solben ang utak niya.<br /><br />Magtatawanan sila. Bungi kasi, bulol, tanga, may luga pa.<br /><br />Putsa.<br /><br />Ano? Tutuhurin siya ni Dyong, babatukan ni Toto. Galit siya pero hindi siya lalaban. Paano, siya ang pinakamaliit, pinakabata. Si Dyong, dose na. Si Toto, sampu. Si Nenet, hindi sigurado pero kasinlaki niya. Maganda na. Lumalaki na ang suso. Mga susong gusto niyang hawakan at laruin tulad nang nasisilip niyang ginagawa ni Dyong kaya lang, kay Dyong talaga si Nenet, hawak na. Minsan nga, nakatulugan nina Dyong at Nenet na hubad sila. Nakita niya ang kabuuan ni Nenet. Gusto niyang gawin lahat ang ginagawa ni Dyong kay Nenet, halikan sa bunganga, laruin ang suso, papatong, kaya lang, magagalit si Dyong.<br /><br />Noon, noong maliit pa siya, ganun din ang nakikita niyang ginagawa ng mga lalaking pumapasok sa kanilang tirahan sa iskwater, tulad ng ginagawa ni Dyong kay Nenet. Sa pagkakaalam niya'y parang gabi-gabi, iba-iba. Maghuhubad ang nanay niya tuwing may dumarating. Nakikita niya ang lahat. Bago 'yun magkasakit ang nanay niya.<br /><br />Si Nanay mo, hindi nagmumulto?<br /><br />Hindi.<br /><br />Hala, ayan na'ng nanay mo! Takbuhan sila. Si Nenet, hindi makatakbo, nananakit ang katawan, pero magtatago rin. May kadiliman ang mga sinapupunan ng mga palapag kahit araw. Walang multo, kahit iwan n'yo ako, mabait si Nanay, mabait yun, sabi niya sa sarili.<br /><br />Moooo! Hindi sa Nanay 'yun, boses ni Nenet. Awooo! Lalong hindi, nagboboses babae si Dyong. Plang! Klang! Nambato ng bakal si Toto. Dyug-dyug-dyug-dyug! Elarti. Dumungaw siya. Hayun, palampas na ang malaahas na sasakyan. Nasa ikalimang palapag siya, mataas ng dalawang palapag sa tapat ng riles ng elarti. Hahabulin niya ang tanaw ng elarti. Sayang, bumaba na ang tama ng solben. Maghapon kasi siyang nakabilad sa araw. Sayang, ang ganda sanang tingnan kung hay pa siya, kahit ganung wala pang ilaw.<br /><br />Siya, sina Dyong, Nenet at Toto, ang siguro'y tanging nakaaalam na napakasarap pagtripan ang elarti lalo na kung gabing rumaragasa ito, puno ng ilaw at lumilipad sila sa solben. Minsan, akala niya ay uod itong kumikinang ng ilaw at puno ng mga nangungunyapit na linta na may sari-sariling korol. Mga lintang galing sa trabaho. Uuwi na sila. May mga buhay sila, e. Isip niya, ang sarap ng maging katulad nila, nakasakay sa kumikinang na uod na kapag ramaragasa ay nag-iiwan ng pula, puti, blu, orens at maraming, maraming bumibilog, tumutudla, bumubulusok, pumapailanlang, bumubulwak at kumikiwal na korol. Andaming korol! At yung sawns. Walang binesa ang disko sa Menudo. Pakiwari niya'y galing sa langit, mula sa kung saan-saan, dumadagundong, sumasayaw, nag-aanyaya, sumasabay, sumasaliw, umiiwas, lumalayo, lumalapit, sumisiksik, himihiyaw, lumalambing, parang duyan, parang oyayi na nais ihele at magupiling, parang agos na tumatangay, parang alapaap na kumakampay, kumakaway, naglalakbay, isang huning nanghahalina, nang-aakit, umaawit, parang... parang... wow!<br /><br />Sinabi niya, ilang beses na nasabi na niya, na gusto niyang mamatay sa elarti. Anong sarap na makasama ang mga korol at sawns. Kesa basura, kesa kalsada, kesa tebi, kesa ketong, kesa sipilis, kesa apoy...!<br /><br />Ginulat siya ng tatlo. Hahaha! Bungi! Tanga! Gago! Baliw! Putsa! Ano, kamo? Lalaban ka? Matapang ka? Ha? Tuhod. Tulak. Aray ko! Pero hindi siya lalaban. Maliit kasi siya.<br /><br />Nagtitrip ka diyan e, bumaba na ang tama natin. Iiskor tayo mamaya. Iiskor ka pa.<br /><br />Tinalunton ni Dodoy ang Abenida. Ayaw niya sa usok. Masakit sa ilong. Maingay, hindi niya gusto ng maingay, hindi sawns. Da bes yung elarti. Magulo, walang kuwentang panginorin. Hayun, yung mga neyong naglalaro at de korol, yun ang gusto niya rito tuwing kagampan ang dilim. Kaya lang, kulang sa galaw, kulang sa liksi, kulang sa hagibis. Gusto niya'y matulin, yung gusto mong habulin pero hindi mo makaya. Ganun ang elarti, ibang klase.<br /><br />Pagtawid niya'y gahibla na siyang muntik na mahagip ng rumaragasang magarang kotse. Kagulo ang trapik. Putang-ina mong yagit ka! Magmura kayo. Wala na sa kanya yun. Yun ngang maghapong higa niya sa gitna o tabing kalsada, e balewala na. Tao, trak, dyip, greder, lahat umiiwas sa kanya, sa kanila. Kailanman ay hindi siya umiiwas sa mga sasakyan. Pag 'di ka umiwas, iiwasan ka. Pag umiwas ka, di sila iiwas. Pag walang umiwas, bahala na. Yun ang natutunan niya sa kalsada. Init at ulan, balewala na rin. Nababata na niyang lahat. Bahagi na yun ng kanyang trabaho, ng pakikibaka sa buhay. Magpupunas ng uling at alikabok, kung minsan putik, sa iba't ibang bahagi ng katawan, damit at syort na anyong basahan, hihiga sa kalsadang maraming nagdaraan katabi ang nakangangang lata. Hindi gaanong dusa kung kargado ng solben, magti-trip ka maghapon. Pag-asa ang bawat kalansing ng barya.<br /><br />Pasok siya sa madilim at namumutik na iskinita. Doon sa pagawaan ni Kenet ng sapatos. Mas bukas ang puwesto niya pag gabi. Maraming umiiskor.<br /><br />Uy, Dods, ano ba'ng atin? Kondolens uli. Ilan? Walong kutsara? Wow! Bigat n'yo ah, lumalakas kayo. Lasing si Kenet, may mga kainuman tulad ng dati.<br /><br />Si Kenet, laging bundat ang tiyan, malaki na nga, hindi tama sa edad niya, trentahin pa lang siya, sobrang porma. Simple lang ang repersyap niya, maliit, pero nakakarating na siya sa Hongkong, Bagyo, at Dabaw. Marami siyang pera.<br /><br />Hayan, may paamang binilot diyan. Okey ang iskor n'yo ngayon, e.<br /><br />May balatong damo si Kenet. Mas gusto ni Dodoy ang damo kaya lang di pa nila kaya. Mas mabigat iskorin ang damo. Pero sabi ni Dyong, malapit na silang lumipat sa damo o maaaring shabu basta't palarin si Nenet, sila.<br /><br />Yun. Kaya walong kutsara sila ngayon, nagsimula na yata ang suwerte ni Nenet kagabi. Pers taym na ipinarada siya ni Dyong sa Ermita, agad may nakanang Ostralyanong datan. Twenti dolars ang hatag. Nagpakabusog sa hamberger at kok sina Dyong, Nenet, at Toto. Si Dodoy, di kaya kahit anong sarap. Ayaw humiwalay nung amoy, nung sigaw. Bumili ng damit si Nenet sa Sentral Market, pati lipstick at pabangong emseben. Bumili rin si Dyong ng bayodyesek para sa lagnat ni Nenet. Hindi ito makagulapay paggising kaninang umaga. Sabi ni Dyong, pers taym kasi sa parener, kaya ganun.<br /><br />Si Dyong, titigil na rin sa pagdapa sa kalsada. Paparada na rin sa parener ngayong gabi. Kung sakali, paparada na rin si Dodoy at Toto sa mga darating na gabi. Baka sakali, iiwan na nila ang kalsada tulad nina Bet, Warly, Kongkong, Perdi, Sali, Mimi…<br /><br />Paparada na sila sa parener.<br /><br />Habang papalapit si Dodoy sa inabandonang bilding, sumagi sa isip niya ang mga sinabi ni Dyong noon, noong buo pa ang gusali at nang masunog ito. Napakagandang bilding nito dati, labas-masok ang mga maayos na tao, yung magagara ang damit. Ni sa hinagap pa nga e, hindi niya inakalang isang araw e, magiging tirahan niya, nila ito, labindalawang palapag. Puro nga abo't uling pero ang laking panangga sa lamig at sakuna sa gabi. Minsan, noong buo pa ang bilding, ang lakas ng ulan, sumilong sila sa may pinto nito, doon na natulog, pero ipinagtabuyan sila ng guwardiya, tinutukan ng baril ang nguso ni Dyong nang umangal ito. Sinagasa nila ang ulan. Nilagnat si Nenet, ang taas, nagdiliryo ng ilang araw, akala nila mamamatay. Sabi ni Dyong, putang-ina, susunugin ko ang bilding! Isang araw nga, mga tatlong buwan na, nasunog ang gusali. Minsang langong-lango sila sa solben, sabi ni Dyong, siya ang sumunog. Pero walang naniwala sa kanilang tatlo. Ngayon, habang paakyat siya sa bilding, naitatanong niya, si Dyong nga kaya ang sumunog nito? Baka totoo. Siya nga e…<br /><br />Ang tagal mo, a.<br /><br />Kumakain sina Dyong, Nenet at Toto ng hamberger at kok na naman. May para kay Dodoy pero ayaw niya.<br /><br />Talagang nagpapakamatay ka na, ano? Ang payat-payat mo na. Kalimutan mo na ang nanay mo. Patay na yun! O, kainin mo!<br /><br />Ayaw. Buang na talaga! Yun ang sabi ni Nenet. Ang nabubuang daw, hindi kumakain nang matagal. Tapos, laging nakatungo, nakatanghod, tulala, nakanganga. Ganun si Dodoy. Naaawa si Nenet.<br /><br />Pansiyam na ngayong araw, gabi, na halos di kumakain si Dodoy. Titikim lang ng konti, wala na. Sabi ni Dyong, pasiyam ngayon ng nanay mo. Basta pasiyam, nag-aalay ang mga namatayan ng pagkain, padasal, palaro. Nililimot ang kalungkutan ng pagkawala ng isang mahal sa buhay. Alam ni Dyong dahil istoawi siya galing sa probinsya. Ganun daw sa kanila kapag ika-siyam na araw ng patay. Kaya dapat huwag nang malungkot si Dodoy.<br /><br />Walong kutsara ngayon ang solben natin. Magseselebreyt tayo sa pasiyam ng nanay ni Dodoy. Tulad sa probinsya namin. Tapos, tsibog tayo, ha, Doy? Ha?<br /><br />Siyanga naman, Doy. Sige na. Selebreyt na!<br /><br />Sige. Bahagyang ngingiti si Dodoy, unang guhit ng ngiti sa kanyang mukha sa loob ng siyam na araw, gabi. Pero sa loob-loob niya, kung alam n'yo lang na hindi sa lungkot kaya ako nagkakaganito… hindi!<br /><br />Hating kapatid, ha, tigalawang kutsara tayo.<br /><br />Ay, Dyong, di ba hihintayin tayo ni Mister Pol Hanikom sa Anito?<br /><br />Alas diyes medya pa yun. Karga muna tayo. Maganda yung kargado ka para mawala yung sakit ng ulo mo at saka hindi hahapdi 'yang sugat. Alam n'yo bang sinabi ni Mister Pol Hanikom na kapag nakakita siya ng isang buong bahay na mauupahan, ititira niya dun si Nenet, kasama tayo, di ba sinabi niya, Net?<br /><br />Oo, kaya lang… parang natatakot ako, e…<br /><br />Ito ang langit para kay Dodoy. Mamumula ang kanyang mga mata, mangangapal at mamamanhid ang kanyang balat, maninindig ang kanyang mga balahibo, wari'y mamimimitig ang kanyang mga binti, nagiging maganda ang paligid, nagiging masaya, nagiging paraiso. Yung tambakan, nag-aanyong bundok ng ginto. Ang init ng araw, walang haplit, sumusuko. Ang lamig ng gabi, umaamo, nagiging kaulayaw. Lahat nang pagkain, maski panis, masarap, malinamnam. Nagiging maganda siyang lalaki, hindi sunog ang balat, hindi kinakalyo ang mga palad at apakan, hindi nagluluga ang kaliwang tenga, hindi nananakit ang mga bulok niyang ngipin, gumagara ang malabasahan niyang kasuotan, nagmimistulang anghel sa kagandahan si Nenet…<br /><br />Si Nanay niya, masaya sa solben, matagal ding gumamit. Siya ang nagturo. Noon una, galit ito. Putang-yawa ka, Dodoy! Masama ang adik-adik. Pero nang dapuan ito ng tebi, pangangati ng katawan at nagsimulang mangayayat, sinubok ang solben, nasarapan ito, naiibsan ang dusa niya. Kaya tuwing uuwi siya, may pasalubong siyang solben at siopao sa nanay niya. Alam na nina Dyong ito.<br /><br />Naikuwento na rin niya kay Nenet na wala siyang tatay. Galing ng Bohol si Nanay niya, yun ang sabi sa kanya. Hindi alam ni Nenet kung saan ang Bohol. Sabi niya, parte pa rin ng Pilipinas. Nakalakihan niyang may labas-masok na lalaki sa mga natirhan nila sa iskwater hanggang nang makabili ng munting dampa sa tambakan. Greyd wan lang siya. Wala nang lalaking lumapit sa nanay niya. Kailangan na niyang maghanap ng pambili ng pagkain at gamot ng nanay niya. Nang lumalala ang kanyang nanay, panahong nakilala niya sina Dyong. Sa kalsada na rin siya tumira. Ayaw na siyang patulugin ng nanay niya sa dampa. Baka raw mahawa siya. Maski ano'ng gawin niya, hindi niya kayang bilhin ang mga gamot.<br /><br />Hindi na rin nanghingi ng gamot ang nanay niya. Solben na lang at siopao.<br /><br />Kwento ka nga, Doy. Magaling kang magkwento, e. Sabi ni Nenet. Magkukuwento siya basta si Nenet.<br /><br />Kwento yun ng nanay niya, sabi niya, paborito niyang kwento. Ngayon lang niya ikukuwento kay Nenet, kasama na rin sina Dyong at Toto dahil naroroon sila. Kwentong piritil daw, sinauna. Kwento ni Huse Lisar.<br /><br />Anong Huse Lisar? Huse Risal!<br /><br />Hagalpakan ng tawa sina Dyong at Toto. Utal, gago! Gusto niyang ma-bad trip pero magkukwento siya kay Nenet. At saka maliit siya, e, hindi niya kaya ang dalawa.<br /><br />Yun daw kasing gamu-gamo, matigas ang ulo, yung anak, ha, hindi yung ina. Mag-ina, e. Sabi ng ina, mainit yang apoy ng ilaw na de gaas kaya huwag kang maglaro sa malapit na malapit dahil malapit ang aksidente dun. E, ito kasing anak, matigas ang ulo. Isang araw, naglikot siya, hindi sa ilaw kundi dun sa tenga ni Huse…<br /><br />Risal, gago!<br /><br />Tapos, sabi ni Nenet.<br /><br />Di napaigtad si Huse…<br /><br />Risal, gago!<br /><br />Tapos…<br /><br />Natabig ni kuwan yung ilawang de gaas at lumiyab yung mesa. E, sa ilalim ng mesa nakatira ang mag-inang gamu-gamo. Nasunog sila. A, hindi yung anak lang pala ang nasunog muna dahil naghahanap ng pagkain ang ina. Umiyak yung nanay nang malaman ang nangyari sa anak. Tapos, nagpakamatay siya.<br /><br />Maiiyak si Nenet.<br /><br />O, pinagtripan mo na naman iyong kuwento. Hindi naman nakakaiyak, e, kuwento ng katangahan iyon, e.<br /><br />Ilang elarti na ang dumaan.<br /><br />Wow, halos panabay nilang nauusal kapag may daraan. Natatahimik sila, ninanamnam ang sawns, ang korol.<br /><br />Dyong, sumakay tayo ng elarti bukas, lambing ni Nenet.<br /><br />Teka… sige.<br /><br />Sama kami.<br /><br />Oo. Pag may nakuha si Nenet mamaya kay Mister Pol Hanikom. Bibili tayo ng tig-isang teysert para hindi tayo nakakahiya.<br /><br />Bukas na lang tayo pumunta kay Mister…<br /><br />Ngayon na. Usapan, e.<br /><br />Mahapdi, e…<br /><br />Singhot ka nang todo para hay na hay ka, mawawala 'yan. Basta bukas, sasakay tayong lahat sa elarti.<br /><br />Naalala ni Dodoy yung sinabi ni Dong, yung pagsunog ng bilding.<br /><br />Oo, kasi ayaw n'yong maniwala. Akala ko kasi noon, mamamatay na si Nenet. Ang ginawa ko, humingi ako ng gas kay Nenet, di ba marami siyang gas na panlinis ng tumitigas na solbent? Yun, sabi ko para sa ilaw natin. Nakikita n'yo yung istasyon dun ng elarti? Dun, sumingit ako noong malapit nang magsara. Nagtago ako. Tapos, nung wala nang elarti, binaybay ko yung tabi ng riles. Pagtapat ko diya sa terd plor, binato ko yung salamin ng bintana. Dun ko ipinasok yung sinindihan kong basahan na babad sa gas. Huwag n'yong ikukuwento sa iba, ha?<br /><br />Oo.<br /><br />Dumalang ang elarti.<br /><br />Magbihis na tayo, Net.<br /><br />Atubili si Nenet, nakatingin kina Dodoy at Toto.<br /><br />Halika na, magagalit si Mister Pol Hanikom, e.<br /><br />Atubiling tatayo si Nenet, inaalalayan ni Dyong.<br /><br />Kaya mo ba, Net, hindi na ba masakit ang ulo mo?<br /><br />Kaya niya.<br /><br />Doy, huwag ka nang malulungkot, ha? Bobolahin ko si Mister Pol Hanikom para may teysert tayo bukas, tapos sasakay tayo ng elarti at saka kakain tayo ng masasarap. Kumain ka na rin kasi…<br /><br />Tatango si Dodoy. Umiika si Nenet. Parang gusto niyang pigilan kaya lang baka magalit si Dyong. At saka gusto niya sanang sabihin kay Nenet na hindi naman siya nalulungkot. Dapat nga, magluwag ang kalooban niya dahil lipas na ang paghihirap ng nanay niya. May gusto lang sana siyang ikuwento pa kay Nenet…<br /><br />Hindi niya alam kung matatanggap ni Nenet. Baka magalit. A, kay Toto na lang muna. Kay Toto na lang…<br /><br />Matapos bihisan ni Dyong si Nenet at magbihis din siya, lumakad na sila.<br /><br />Pilit na inaaninag ni Dodoy si Nenet habanag paalis na sila ni Dyong hanggang sa nawala na ang mga ito sa may hagdan. Alam niyang ayaw ni Nenet na pumunta kay Mister… hindi niya mabigkas yung pangalan. Ayaw ni Nenet. Dati, gustung-gusto nito, pero matapos ang unang parada kagabi, narinig niyang nagreklamo si Nenet kay Dyong… hindi naman pala mabait ang parener.<br /><br />Masasanay ka rin, sabi ni Dyong. Noong una nga, akala natin hindi natin kayang humiga sa kalsada na bilad maghapon, nauulanan pa nga tayo pero nakaya natin. Kaya.<br /><br />Tuloy ang dyaming nina Dodoy at Toto.<br /><br />Ikaw, To, asan ang nanay at tatay mo?<br /><br />Ako… sabihin ko na sa 'yo ang totoo, Doy, wala rin akong tatay, puta rin ang nanay ko. Pero tumigil na.<br /><br />Asan na siya?<br /><br />Hindi ko alam. Iniwan niya ako, e. Sabi niya babalik siya. Hintay ako nang hintay dun sa tinitirhan namin dati sa Baclaran, pero hindi na siya bumalik. Putang-ina niya, galit ako sa kanya. Ikaw, Doy, hindi ka ba galit sa nanay mo?<br /><br />Noon. Ayoko lang yung mga lalaking panay ang pasok sa bahay pag gabi. Ginagalaw nila si Nanay tapos sinisipa ako pag tumitingin ako sa ginagawa nila. Kunwari tulog akong lagi pag may lalaki sa bahay. Kawawa si Nanay…<br /><br />Tutulo ang luha ni Dodoy. Ngayon lang siya umiyak, ngayong pasiyam. Maiiyak din si Toto.<br /><br />Galit ako sa nanay ko… pero mahal ko din naman siya kahit na iniwan niya ako…<br /><br />Madalang na madalang na ang elarti. Kargadong-kargado na sina Dodoy at Toto. Panay pa rin ang singhot nila ng solben. Banat hanggang sa kaya.<br /><br />To, naniniwala ka ba kay Dyong na siya ang sumunog sa bilding na 'to?<br /><br />Maniniwala ka rin ba na sinunog ko ang nanay ko?<br /><br />Ano?<br /><br />Sinunog ko si Nanay, To… sinunog ko siya…<br /><br />Umiiling si Toto. Hindi mo yun magagawa sa nanay mo. Nanay mo yun, e. Hindi ako maniniwala!<br /><br />Sinunog ko siya, To… sinunong ko yung bahay namin… dinurog ko muna siya ng solben, durog na durog… tapos, nung hay na hay na siya, binuhusan ko yung bahay ng gas… kay Nenet ko rin hiningi yung gas…<br /><br />Putang-ina…<br /><br />Kaya ako hindi makatulog, To… hindi ako makakain… hindi ko malimutan yung sigaw ni Nanay, saka yung amoy ng nasusunog niyang laman… ginawa ko yun kasi awang-awa na ako sa kanya… tuwing uubo siya, may dugo… yung katawan niya, puro nana at butas… nilalangaw siya… pag gabi, kinakain siya ng mga daga… putsa… putsa talaga…<br /><br />Yuyugyog ang buong katawan ni Dodoy sa kanyang paghagulgol.<br /><br />Mapapaatras si Toto. Magsusuka nang magsusuka, lalayo.<br /><br />Samahan mo ako, To. Huwag mo akong iwan dito…<br /><br />Ayoko na! Bad trip ka! Putang-ina! Tatakbo si Toto, lalamunin ng dilim.<br /><br />Totodohin ni Dodoy ang pagsinghot sa solben, parang mauubusan, parang hinahabol, kailangan niyang mapuno, mawala para hindi mahabol ng amoy ng nasusunog na laman, ng nakalulunos na sigaw.<br /><br />Kaginsa-ginsa'y may naulinigan siyang tunog, parang malayong sigaw? Hindi, sawns! Sawns nga! Hayun, tanaw niya ang papalapit na elarti. Andaming korol.<br /><br />Tatayo si Dodoy, hahakbang sa hanggahan ng palapag. Sasakay ako sa elarti, mauuna ako sa kanila… hindi nila ako mahahabol. Guguhit ang ngiti sa kanyang mukha.<br /><br />Bago tumapat sa gusali ang rumaragasang dambuhalang uod ay lumipad na si Dodoy… sa magpakailanman.<br /><br />Wow.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Postcript:<br /><br />Si Nenet, namatay sa impeksyon ng kanyang maselang parte.<br />Si Toto, nasa sentro ng rehabilitasyon para sa mga adik.<br />Si Dyong, inampon, sabi'y inasawa ni Mister Paul Honeycombe. Nasa Ostralya na sila.</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-57714175288323789382009-10-15T13:26:00.000-07:002009-10-15T13:29:19.560-07:00Our Death, In MemoriamBy Lav Diaz<br /><br />In November 30, 2006, super typhoon Reming (international name: Durian) struck the Philippines killing hundreds of people and burying villages around the Mayon volcano area in the Bicol region. Nine hours of relentless heavy rain and wind caused harrowing deaths and destruction. Volcanic debris, boulders, sand and mudflows covered the once verdant and serene place. The sight of the aftermath was apocalyptic. The typhoon was the strongest to hit the Philippines in living memory.<br /><br />Two weeks before the typhoon struck, I wrapped the four-month shoot of Heremias Book Two in the very same places that the typhoon destroyed. A good part of Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino was also shot there three years ago. I've become so attached to the place. I didn't realize the magnitude of the devastation till I had gained enough courage to visit the place a week later. The places where we shot scenes were all in ruins; the roads were gone, the houses were either buried or torn to pieces, structures collapsed. It was unbelievable; horrifying. Gloom and sorrow were all over the place. The smell of death was hovering in every corner, even in sleep and in dreams. You could hear hapless wails in the dead of the night, names being screamed and cried out. People were digging, or just walking aimlessly, looking for loved ones; people were burying loved ones; people were going insane; people were numbed by so much pain. And help was late in coming. The system is so neglectful and so corrupt. I got hold of my camera and with the help of two, three friends living in the area, I started shooting I don't know what yet then. A documentary? Maybe just a recording, a reportage (For whom? For myself? I just felt I had to do something.)? I just started interviewing and shooting. After a week of frenzied and relentless shoot, I watched the footage. And I decided to write a story. I decided to make a film, a memoriam, and share it to the world; share our grief. It's the only thing I can do and contribute to all the madness. I created three characters and just like in my last shoots (Ebolusyon and Heremias Book Two), I reckoned, the process would be very organic. I will write the story as we shoot; do improv method; we will discover things through the process. And so, for the next five weeks, we were shooting nonstop in the most devastated areas, specifically the village of Padang. Padang is Pompeii. In one sweep, water, sand and boulders rolled down the volcano and the village is gone. I wrote scripts/dialogue/instructions before a scene was shot. I invited three theater actors, a painter and local non-actors to play the parts. Three local friends became the crew and staff. A friend's house became our production house. The shoot was both harrowing and liberating for us. It was always raining. We wept, embraced whatever sorrow can give us, we can't help it; actors were breaking down; we had had discourses of what happened but most of the time, individually, we struggled in silence trying to reconcile everything. One actor, a medium, could actually see the suffering spirits. We were shooting over buried houses, over dead bodies. We were purging our own demons. It was a journey into the deepest melancholia of existence.<br /><br />The film's discourse is on the death of beauty, death of aesthetics, how things can turn ugly. I borrow Rainer Maria Rilke's line from his Duino Elegy I: “Beauty is the beginning of terror.” How true and honest.<br /><br />The great and beautiful Mayon Volcano is a metaphor for the argument. Mayon is the only volcano in the world with the most perfect cone. The resilient locals, called Bicolanos, refer to it as Daragang Magayon (beautiful maiden). On a sunny or clear day, the sight of Mayon is just majestic, perfect and heavenly in all angles. On a cloudy day, you would long and wait for her to peek from within the cumulus covers. But it is also one of the deadliest, if not the deadliest, volcanoes in the planet. In 1814, during the Spanish era in the Philippines, it unleashed its havoc and buried the surrounding towns with rocks and lava. The memory of that event still haunts the locals. They continue to tell stories, myths and legends about the event. Artists continue to be inspired and create works from the memory. They have a beautiful park, called Cagsawa, created from the ruins to remind them always. And in an ironic twist, Mayon just simply destroyed the park that is so faithfully dedicated to her beauty. Beauty rears its ugly head, so to speak, killing those who prepare the `makeup and production design'. Or, the pursuit of aesthetics can be very devastating and horrifying, e.g. Vincent Van Gogh, or think of Kurt Cobain and Mark Chapman, great metaphors on the irony of the pursuit for aesthetics.<br /><br />The story that grew and evolved during the six-week-shoot revolves on the return of the great Filipino poet, Benjamin Agusan, to his birthplace, Padang, now buried. He was in Russia, in an old town called Kaluga, the past seven years, living there on a grant and a residency, taught and conducted workshops in a university. He kept writing poetry; published two books of sadness and longing in the process. He was shooting video collages, fell in love with a Slavic beauty, buried a son, and almost went mad. He came back to bury his dead—father, mother, sister and a lover. He came back to confront some issues, to face secrets, to heal wounds, or create more wounds. He came back to face Mayon, the raging beauty and muse of his youth. He came home to confront the country that he so loved and hated, the Philippines. He came back to die. In the backdrop are his friends, nemesis and a son. His return is an aesthetic journey.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From KINO Magazine, Slovenia. Notes written by Lav Diaz for his film Death in the Land of Encantos</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-72802464145556708542009-10-14T10:37:00.000-07:002009-10-14T10:39:29.610-07:00Melancholia sa Melancholia<span style="font-weight:bold;">Ni Rolando Tolentino</span><br /><br />MANILA — Sa mga rebyu ng <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia,</span> laging dinidiin ang kalungkutan na pumapaimbalot sa mga buhay ng tauhan, ng produksyon ng sining at katotohanan sa gitna ng matinding politikal na panunupil ng komersyal na cinema (negosyo) at ng gobyerno. Ang huling dalawa ang bumubuo ng estado ng bansa, ang black hole na humihigop sa lahat ng mga anak at mamamayan nito sa pagdalumat sa kolektibo at individual na buhay bilang kalungkutan.<br /><br />Tatlo ang pangunahing seksyon ng Melancholia: ang una, sa Sagada, magtatagpo ang isang madre, bugaw at puta na pinag-ugnay ng nakaraan bilang naiwan ng politikal na pinaslang o inaasahang patay na; ang ikalawa, sa Maynila, ang bugaw ay naging publisher, ang puta naging prinsipal ng eskwelahan; at panghuli, sa gubat sa Mindoro, isang rebolusyonaryo, asawa ng puta sa una, ang mamamatay sa digmaan. May epilogo, ang paghahanap ng balo ng rebolusyonaryo sa kadiliman ng parke sa syudad.<br />Melancholia ang pakiwari sa panonood ng pelikula. Ang melancholia ay isang mental state, ng hindi lubos na pag-usad dahil nabalaho sa isang bagay (tao o pangyayari) na hindi makalimutan, ayaw ilibing ang patay. Kung gayon, melancholic ang <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia, </span>mayroon itong hindi inililibing sa kolektibong kamalayan ng mga tauhan nito.<br /><br />Paano maglibing ng isang desaparecidos? Walang bangkay pero hindi matuldukan ang pagkawala? Na ang bawat pangungulila ay paggunita sa kapasidad ng pag-alaala, na siyang binubura ng pagdanas ng politikal na pagpaslang o pandurukot ng estado sa mga aktibista at rebolusyonaryo nito? Ito ang kapasidad na makapaglikha ng alternatibong imahinaryo, kaya iniimpit ng estado ng nakaraan at kasalukuyan.<br /><br />O ang mismong rebolusyonaryong proyektong nagbibigay ng radikal na lagusan sa lahat ng ito? Sinasaad ng pelikula, ang gitnang uring kalungkutan ng individual at kolektibo sa pakikibaka ang bumabalaho sa posibilidad ng pag-ungos ng rebolusyonaryong pakikibaka. Ito o ang sikliko ng panunupil ng mga nanunungkulan sa gobyerno at interes ng negosyong higit na nakakapagtiyak ng kolektibong kalungkutan para sa dinudustang nakararami.<br /><br />Ang proyekto ng Melancholia ay hindi ilibing ang patay. Ibuyanyang ito sa pamamagitan ng pagdanas ng epekto sa mga naiwang buhay, kung paano ito ay sustenidong pamana ng dekada at siglo ng panunupil ng estado. Tulad ng mga naunang pelikula ni Lav Diaz, polemikal ang paglalahad ng naratibo bilang bahagi ng mas malaking diskurso at pagninilay-nilay sa sining at politika.<br /><br />Hindi kayang palitan ng identidad at lunan ang batayang pagkatao na dumadanas ng kalungkutan ng estado. Ito ang malawakang panahon at malalimang kasaysayang nagbibigay-epekto sa kolektibong pagkatao. Dala-dala ng mga tauhan, sa kaibuturan ng kanilang pagkatao, ang kolektibong kalungkutan ng estado. At ito ang malawakang self-reflexivity na undertaking ng mga pelikula ni Diaz: ang ating pinapanood (ang pelikula) ay ang dating na may sumpang hindi kailanman mapagpag-pagpag (ang mismong melancholia).<br /><br />Hindi pagtunghay sa kalungkutan ang proyekto ng <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia.</span> Kung ito, di sana ay nalungkot tayo sa panonood ng pito at kalahating oras na pelikula. Ito ang kanyang polemiko. Ang tinutunghayan natin ay ang filmikong produksyon ng melancholia ng mga tauhan bilang bukal ng identifikasyon sa melancholia ng manonood at mamamayan—na ang sinisiwalat na “katotohanan” sa pelikula ay ang referensiya sa historikal na katotohanan ng mamamayan.<br /><br />Nananatiling natatangi ang mga pelikula ni Diaz dahil ginagawang kasiya-siya ang politikal bilang lagusan ng kontra-politikang kasiyahan laban sa estado ng gobyerno at negosyo. Sa kulturang popular ng malling, Facebook, 24/7 na estabilisymento para sa libo-libong call center agents sa bansa, nilulusaw ng estado ang politikal sa individual. Sa ritwalisasyon at rehimentasyon ng buhay, tinatanggap na lamang ang kalungkutan bilang batayan ng konsumpsyon at kasiyahan.<br /><br />Na ang ibinubuyanyang na hibla sa <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span> ay nasa rebolusyon ang katotohanan: figuratibo at literal na pakikipagdigma. Kung wala itong paninidigan, walang katotohanan sa sining at politikal, na gaya ng formulasyon ng pelikula, walang katotohanan maliban sa karanasan sa kalungkutan. Naghahanap lang tayo ng multong hindi mailibing sa kadiliman at kalawakan ng parke, mall, Internet at iba pang sityo ng dustang buhay.santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-38727420246361758402009-10-14T10:32:00.000-07:002009-10-14T10:34:17.250-07:00Melancholia: Philippine cinema as meditation and metaphysics<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Lito B. Zulueta<br /></span><br /><br />Lav Diaz’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span> provides a sweeping fillip and summing-up to the aesthetics he has stubbornly maintained and that has always baffled audiences. A mordant movie that is part pastorale, part meditation, and part social commentary, there is no other film like it, except for the previous movies he has done— sweeping narrative movies that seem determined to break the standard idea of a regular feature movie that’s all but told in just 90 minutes more or less.<br /><br />But unlike in his previous movies where the narrative seems a recasting of the picaresque, <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia, </span>Diaz dispenses with the narrative trajectory altogether, leaving the viewer on tenterhooks but still with a modicum of familiarity with its most basic story line revolving around three characters—a hooker, a pimp and a nun. All of them seem wounded by grief over the deaths of communist rebel friends who had been dashed and killed either by the insurgency conflict or by natural calamity. Everyone is held by the memory of death and destruction.<br /><br />All of eight hours, <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span> is an extended mining of memories and insights, the masochism of the exercise somehow alleviated by the contemplative mood and the sprawling bucolic romp that’s vintage Lav Diaz iconology. Some among the viewers may impatiently complain that Diaz should have shown rather than told, but the aesthetic he has mastered along this line shirks any postcard-pretty representation: if there’s any image-making here, it is more of an evocation, the tracing of an aura that hovers between reality and unreality.<br /><br />After all, how does one really deal with pain and suffering? If violence and death are as perennial as the grass—as unerringly present in the evergreen forests as they are a regular in the headlines of metropolitan newspapers—how does one cope with them? In the world of Lav Diaz, death is no respecter of geographies or political causes: one meets it in both the urban jungle and the rural sprawl, one dies because of a calamity of nature or a calamity of conflict, and those left behind are left with the destiny of grasping and groping for meaning in the midst of the utter meaninglessness of it all. <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia </span>is not a mood, it’s a movie of meaning and worth; it’s a cinema of powerful signification.santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-43825975341989660802009-10-14T10:11:00.000-07:002009-10-15T12:41:24.278-07:00A Speech for the 8th Italian Film Festival<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Lav Diaz</span><br /><br />This piece will not be long. I timed it. It shall be just two minutes. <br /><br />Okay, it will be a little bit longer. I am writing this piece in a very organic way, no apologies-stream of consciousness manner. This is free cinema. <br /><br />I hate speeches to be very honest. Besides an incurable stage freight, I would rather much prefer to just play guitar with my back behind the crowd or be behind the camera than talk in front of people who would just be hearing another fool’s hyperbole and self-important chatter. <br /><br />I received this request to deliver a speech here as a guest of honor. <br /><br />What on earth is a guest of honor? Have you checked my background? The Board of Censors here in the Philippines banned my films, my two films that won at the Orizzonti of the Venice Film Festival. There’s nudity and sex, they said. Without proper critical viewing of my films by the honorable members of the Board of Censors, they deemed the films not appropriate for viewing here in their country of origin. They banned other works, too. And lately, they have been encroaching on the freedom of venues like the Adarna Theatre of the University of the Philippines. Benito Mussolini must be very proud. <br /><br />I’ll say it again. Censorship is poison to cinema. Censorship is poison to the arts. Censorship is poison to culture. Censorship is a very feudal act. It is fascism.<br /><br />The invitation also says that I should talk about my Venice experience. So, here’s a piece from a Filipino independent pornography filmmaker.<br /><br />First, I would like to congratulate the 8th edition of the Italian Film Festival here in our beloved battered Philippines. <br /><br />The Venice Film Festival or the Mostra Internazionale d'Arte Cinematografica di Venezia is the Mother of film festivals. It is the oldest film festival in the world. This tradition of mounting film festivals had its beginning in Venice, Italy in 1932. In 1952, the first Filipino film to compete, Manuel Conde’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Genghis Khan</span>, exhibited in Venice. In 1985, Mike de Leon’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Sister Stella L.</span> was shown at the festival. And in 2007, my film <span style="font-style:italic;">Death in the Land of Encantos </span>competed and won Special Mention at the Orizzonti section of the festival. The following year, in 2008, my film <span style="font-style:italic;">Melancholia</span>, competed in the same section and won the Orizzonti Prize. This year, Briliante Mendoza’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Lola</span> was a Philippine entry at the Main Competition and Pepe Diokno’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Engkwentro</span> coveted two prizes, the Orizzonti Prize and the Luigi di Laurentii Lion of the Future Prize. Despite the dearth of our participation in the seventy six years existence of the Mostra, only six films to date, we have had a very triumphant and respectable run. Long live, Philippine cinema, indeed! And I would like to point out that despite the absence of state support in our cultural struggle, in the state’s sheer ignorance on the very important role of the arts in educating our people, cultural workers, especially artists and activists, persevere in pursuing greater discourse and praxis in this vast wasteland called the Philippines. <br /><br />A Venice attendance is every filmmaker’s dream. If you are into aesthetic exercise, world cinema offers a load of great and incendiary works. And if you have celebrity skin, Hollywood’s killer vanity and fashion’s hallucinatory sheen is just everywhere. You can check the stately hotel where Thomas Mann wrote Death in Venice. A walk in Venice is a time machine ride with its old structures, art centers and canals. A boat ride is a rock ‘n roll experience.<br /><br />More than the festivities and the city, Italy gave the world its great cinema culture. Roberto Rossellini, Michaelangelo Antonioni, Federico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Vittorio de Sica, Ermanno Olmi, Bernardo Bertolucci, Sergio Leone. That venerable list is continued by modern auteurs like Gianni Amelio, Giuseppe Tornatore, Marco Bellocchio, Paolo Sorrentino, Gabriele Salvatores and a lot more.<br /><br />Italian cinema has given us many of the greatest models and paradigms--<span style="font-style:italic;">Open City, Paisan, Stromboli, L’Avventura, La Notte, L’eclisse, The Leopard, The Gospel According to St. Matthew, 8 ½, La Dolce Vita, Umberto D., Bicycle Thief, The Conformist, The Tree of Wooden Clogs, L’America.</span> These works are incomparable masterpeices. These works set the standard by which the greater aesthetic discourse in cinema will continue to be measured upon till cinema is not dead. Yes, cinema will not die. We have Italian Cinema. Cinema will not die, we have Philippine cinema.<br /><br />In one interview, Antonioni said: "I would not want to say. Or perhaps I do not know."<br /><br />And I want to say this, allow me please: “Fuck profit motive in cinema!”<br /><br />We just hope that this year’s edition will measure up to the greater tradition of cinema.<br /><br />I will forever honor the memory of the great martyr, Alexis Tioseco… for the struggle toward a greater Philippine Cinema. Nika Bohinc will forever be in our hearts.<br /><br />Again, mabuhay to the 8th year of the Italian Film Festival.<br /><br />Salamat po.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Read by Angeli Bayani, lead actress of Death in the Land of Encantos and Melancholia, during the Opening Ceremonies of the 8th Italian Film Festival in Manila, October 14, 2009)</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417570029041600660.post-90903126052247230502009-09-05T09:26:00.000-07:002009-09-06T10:09:38.865-07:00A River Runs Through It<span style="font-weight:bold;">By Alexis A. Tioseco</span><br /><br />We walk a narrow dirt path lined randomly with fragmented rocks, working our way down to the point that runs parallel to a long river; a river that serves as a divide between the ground I walk on and the grassy terrain on side opposite. The landscape on this side rises up drastically: dirt, low-cost housing is being prepared on the main plain some twenty feet higher. Lav Diaz, sporting a worn back t-shirt, (which appears to have weathered many battles) and black jeans torn at the knees, his cinematographer (twenty-something Mara Benitez, daughter of a well-known underwater cinematographer) following suit, steps gingerly into the water. They cross to the midpoint in the narrow river, water reaching their ankles, their pants are rolled up just below the knees.<br /><br />The soundman Bob Macabenta tests the levels of the DAT recording device (borrowed from cinematographer Neil Daza). There is loud noise coming from the construction going on in the main plain above us, and it dominates the audio. Rolly (the stout production manager), and Celso (the diligent AD and line producer), quiet the workers, asking that they halt their work briefly for the duration of the shot. They oblige, intrigued by what is going on, and watch intently the proceedings from their birds-eye position.<br /><br />Bob sends Lav a thumb's up sign, signaling the sound is clear. Lav takes one more peek through the eyehole of the camera, a glance at the LCD display detailing the frame, then a final look at the river, whose water persists, tranquilly. He folds his arms in front of his chest, and in his typical crooked stance (he has muscle problems) yells out into the distance, “Action!”. The crew looks on, the construction workers are paused, watching, and I observe standing on the dirt road to the side of the river. We wait…<br /><br />Since first watching the 5-hour “Batang West Side”, at its World Premiere during Cinemanila in 2001, I've been an ardent believer in the cinema of Lav Diaz. “Batang West Side” not only changed the way that I viewed cinema and the possibilities of Philippine cinema, but it was the film that made cinema matter to me, personally. It impact to me was like that of “Night and Fog” to Daney: a numbing revelation of the power this medium.<br /><br />Diaz's long takes feel right. I've seen “Batang West Side” (edited by Ron Dale) three times now and the 11-hour “Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino” (edited by Diaz himself) four, and the rhythm of each shot seems timed to near-perfection. Diaz's shots linger long enough to let thoughts ferment and to let the eyes explore and wander; absorbing in equal measure the crevices of the frame, the ambient sounds of the world captured in it, and the audiences own personal reflections on the relation of what one is seeing now to what has been shown to him prior. They cut, in my viewing experience; at the moment when it feels ones attention may soon be diverted.<br /><br />This, however, is the first time I am on the set of a Lav Diaz film…<br /><br />As minutes pass, the frame remains stagnant, nothing changing, nothing moving, save for the natural ebb and flow of the river. Far in the distance on the dirt road in front of me there is movement. Heremias (played by Ronnie Lazaro) is walking forward towards me at a snails-pace, his cow trailing slightly to his side, guided by a rope he holds loosely. So beaten and worn is this character (by what we know not) that he has chosen to leave his band of traveling handicraft vendors and venture off on his own. His feet don't walk, they labor, and considering the incredible distances he must traverse (first with his cow, later alone), the toll it takes on the body and the mind must be incredible. This is solitude, this is loneliness, and it is the path he has chosen.<br /><br />Heremias, feet dragging, head bowed humbly, has finally reached the point of entry into the river. He steps in first, legs weary, and dips his hand in the water as his cow trails him along the slippery path. He walks to the middle of the river, the center of Diaz's frame (which has remained stationary throughout), and places the shirt that has been resting on his shoulder on a rock, dipping his hands into the river to clean them. He turns again to his majestic cow, the soothing sounds of water flowing in the river in the background, and begins to wash him, gently dabbing water from the river on it's body, rubbing it over its torso and legs in an effort to cleanse it from the dirt it must have accumulated over the course of their journey.<br /><br />Often when Diaz's characters enter a stagnant frame from a distance, the shot will be held until the character exits the frame; it is a pattern you become accustomed to and begin to expect when watching a Lav Diaz film. For the uninitiated it can be unbearable to endure, for those that have come to expect it, it is therapy.<br /><br />Heremias pauses for a moment and looks out into the distance of the river…<br /><br />Ronnie Lazaro has a magnificent body. It has nothing to do with muscle (which he has; his chest built like a gladiator) nor stature (he is not tall though neither is he short), but with the relation of his body, to the manner in which he carries it; the way he moves, sits, stands, pauses. Simple put— his way of being. He is representative of the every-Filipino: humble yet strong, quiet yet resilient. Sturdy, and able to endure.<br /><br />Luc Dardenne, members of the Jury that awarded the short film he starred in, “Anino” (Shadows), the Palme D'or in Cannes in 2000, described Ronnie Lazaro as a beautiful, enigmatic image on the screen. I must agree with Dardenne, and I believe this enigma, this mystery, is borne out of the contradictions of Lazaro's body (imposing) and his nature (meek). But this meekness is not a manifestation of humility without conviction, but rather the opposite: it is the demeanor of one who has/is contemplating the world around him, and choosing if and when the proper time to act is. The body ensures survival while searching; the search leads to conviction in moments of action.<br /><br />He turns back to his cow, placing hand on its shoulder, and looks diagonally to that which is beyond the scope of our frame (opposite from the side he entered). His head is barely taller than the back of the cow. The moment passes… and he returns to washing his companion, darting underneath him at one point to better wash his underside.<br /><br />He then rests himself down on a rock near his cow. He seeks a moment to himself, once again, before his cow, equally noble in appearance and having hardly have moved at this point, nudges him slightly with his head, causing Heremias to turn and pat him lovingly on the nose. We are now 12 minutes into the shot at this point, and the crew all light up with smiles at this sight, as if the cow, reading their minds, was nudging Ronnie to say “get up, let's go!” knowing Diaz's modus operandi, that “cut” would only enter the vocabulary once they exited the frame.<br /><br />Heremias sits undeterred by the prodding, and his cow then lowers his head resigned to wait and drinks from the river. After a beat Heremias walks to the rock where he placed his shirt, and puts it back on. Again, he takes a moment to sit, head-lowered, and let the water pass through legs…<br /><br />Remember that the workers above have halted their grind and are watching, quizzically, as, in their eyes, nothing is happening.<br /><br />I stand silent, alone in my thoughts, still in the same position I was in when the camera began its set-up. I am getting impatient at this spectacle, nervously glancing at the workers, bystanders, and various members of the crew. A devout cinephile and lover of long takes pregnant with meaning I am, not to mention a devout believer in the cinema of Diaz, but at this precise moment I am no better than any other person on the set. We all began the scene with intent concentration but at this point we've been broken. It is only Lav, Ronnie and the cow who remain in focus. Or maybe just Lav and Ronnnie…<br /><br />Minutes pass and Heremias stands up, tugging the rope that is tied to his cow, leading him out of the river and back to the road in front of me; the road from which they came. They walk, slowly, continuing to preserve patient movement proper to the film. I didn't know this at the time, but the left side of the frame of the shot ends just before the dirt road begins; the view of the path that they walk is obstructed almost completely by shrubbery (as with many shots in his films, it is not a matter of seeing the characters that is important to Diaz, it is that we know they are there).<br /><br />The crew waits with giddy anticipation, and as Heremias and cow wander far off into the distance, Diaz yells, “cut”. The crew applauds, the onlookers wonder why, and the construction workers resume their grind.<br /><br />When I watch the finished film of Heremias for the first time I notice this shot. It was one of a small handful that I had the privilege to witness firsthand. In the film, the beginning and ending of the shot are abbreviated—we see Heremias and his cow, walking to us and away from us only briefly. I sink into the river while watching and listening to this scene, enraptured by the beauty of nature, entranced by the soothing sounds of the water flowing; feeling, understanding, what this moment means to Heremias. Diaz's air on set, his resiliency and belief in his art, in art period, represent the melding of what Ronnie Lazaro's body represents and his meekness seeks. There is humility in Diaz's patience, and a resiliency in his unwavering gaze, unwavering patience of his camera. It is a patience born from a conviction.<br /><br />I did not concede to this on the set, but understood when watching the film. Standing on that dirt road, I was anxiously anticipating the word “cut”. Sitting in my cinema seat, I wish this shot could go on forever…<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">From KINO Magazine, Slovenia and Rogue Magazine (http://issuu.com/migmari/docs/rogue_v1.3_september-lowres?mode=embed&documentId=080405080601-0ceb76956ac242f7aa1742b770a79eda&layout=grey)</span>santiagohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15479017682420277322noreply@blogger.com0