By Alexis A. Tioseco
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.
This, however, is the first time I am on the set of a Lav Diaz film…
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.
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.
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.
Heremias pauses for a moment and looks out into the distance of the river…
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
Remember that the workers above have halted their grind and are watching, quizzically, as, in their eyes, nothing is happening.
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…
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).
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.
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.
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…
From KINO Magazine, Slovenia and Rogue Magazine (http://issuu.com/migmari/docs/rogue_v1.3_september-lowres?mode=embed&documentId=080405080601-0ceb76956ac242f7aa1742b770a79eda&layout=grey)
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Batang West Side
By Alexis Tioseco
Batang West Side is an unequivocal masterpiece.
Read that again.
I know that it is common practice to allow a film to stand the test of time (people often say 10-20 years) before making such a claim, but I am that confident that this film will not only hold up over time, but be held in an even higher regard.
Why will Batang West Side challenge Philippine cinema? The film is long. Very long. It's 5 hours. 2 ½ - 3 times the length of a conventional film. Many quip at the very thought of watching a five hour movie, and persevere in their argument that it is self-indulgent and arrogant to expect an audience to sit through it. But what they need to understand, Lav explains ever-so-eloquently in his director's statement for the Hong Kong International Film Festival:
'Batang West Side is five hours long. For many this is an issue. A huge issue, and a headache to many here in the Philippines. But not an issue if we remember that there are small and large canvasses; brief ditties and lengthy arias; short stories and multi-volume novels; the haiku and The Iliad. This should be the end of the argument.'
Batang West Side is the antithesis of a present-day Filipino film, not only challenging our natural sensibilities on what the length of a film should be, but, even more so, challenging our sensibilities about how a (Filipino) film should be made. There is violence, but it is brief and subtle. There is a young couple, but there are no hot love scenes. There are parent-child arguments, but there is no melodrama. There are serious questions, but no half-assed answers.
How will Batang West Side change Philippine cinema? Precisely through challenging it. It is a common and acceptable practice for filmmakers to make films for an audience. To play to an audience's sensibilities (there's that word again), and make films that they will like and easily accept. But once in a while, just once in a while, you have to challenge an audience and hope that they grow with you as a result. Progress was never made without first attempting to defy the norm.
By making a film of this length, by making it in such a manner, by refusing to cut it, by the recognition it has received both here and overseas, the makers of Batang West Side serve as a shining example of the fortitude needed to reverse our cinema's current stigma.
There are no weak links in the film. Its narrative flows smoothly. Its acting, from both veterans (Joel Torre, Gloria Diaz, among others) and young actors (Yul Servo, Priscilla Almeda) alike is uniformly solid. The film's cinematography, courtesy of Miguel Fabie III, Tony Ponti, and Ruben Lee, is superb: a feat that should be commended to the high heavens if we are to believe the words of Diaz, that eighty percent of the film was shot with available light. Its editing by Ron Dale, despite the numerous complaints about the film's length, is brilliant, each shot remaining on the screen long enough to provoke and let linger the film's various ideas.
Batang West Side is about a lot of things. It's about Fil-Ams, the American dream, family, infidelity, secrets, Martial Law, drugs, reflection, decisions, friendship, identity, patriotism, responsibility, and the collective murdering of the Filipino soul. It's about questions more than it is about answers, and it's about making us think, probe, examine, and ultimately reflect.
The bulk of Batang West Side is spent following a detective trying to answer the questions behind the death of Hanzel, but the case is never resolved. Who did kill Hanzel - gangsters? Drug addicts? His mother's lover? Himself? The film doesn't attempt to give any answers, and it's only fitting that it doesn't. On numerous occasions, our protagonist, Mijarez, is asked tough questions-- by his therapist, by Hanzel's mother, by the documentarian, among others. His answer each time speaks volumes, of him, of us, of our mentality:
`I don't know'.
What director Lav Diaz has done with Batang West Side is craft a film so thorough in its dissection of its subject, and so engaging in its handling, that to watch it, in its entirety, is nothing short of a cathartic experience. It may just as well be us in the place of Joel Torre in the film's last few frames, he alone in the middle of the cold New Jersey night, us alone with our thoughts in the middle of a cold movie theater, exhaling our repressed burdens and inhaling peace of mind.
This is the first film review written by Alexis Tioseco. He wrote it on April 23, 2003.
Batang West Side is an unequivocal masterpiece.
Read that again.
I know that it is common practice to allow a film to stand the test of time (people often say 10-20 years) before making such a claim, but I am that confident that this film will not only hold up over time, but be held in an even higher regard.
Why will Batang West Side challenge Philippine cinema? The film is long. Very long. It's 5 hours. 2 ½ - 3 times the length of a conventional film. Many quip at the very thought of watching a five hour movie, and persevere in their argument that it is self-indulgent and arrogant to expect an audience to sit through it. But what they need to understand, Lav explains ever-so-eloquently in his director's statement for the Hong Kong International Film Festival:
'Batang West Side is five hours long. For many this is an issue. A huge issue, and a headache to many here in the Philippines. But not an issue if we remember that there are small and large canvasses; brief ditties and lengthy arias; short stories and multi-volume novels; the haiku and The Iliad. This should be the end of the argument.'
Batang West Side is the antithesis of a present-day Filipino film, not only challenging our natural sensibilities on what the length of a film should be, but, even more so, challenging our sensibilities about how a (Filipino) film should be made. There is violence, but it is brief and subtle. There is a young couple, but there are no hot love scenes. There are parent-child arguments, but there is no melodrama. There are serious questions, but no half-assed answers.
How will Batang West Side change Philippine cinema? Precisely through challenging it. It is a common and acceptable practice for filmmakers to make films for an audience. To play to an audience's sensibilities (there's that word again), and make films that they will like and easily accept. But once in a while, just once in a while, you have to challenge an audience and hope that they grow with you as a result. Progress was never made without first attempting to defy the norm.
By making a film of this length, by making it in such a manner, by refusing to cut it, by the recognition it has received both here and overseas, the makers of Batang West Side serve as a shining example of the fortitude needed to reverse our cinema's current stigma.
There are no weak links in the film. Its narrative flows smoothly. Its acting, from both veterans (Joel Torre, Gloria Diaz, among others) and young actors (Yul Servo, Priscilla Almeda) alike is uniformly solid. The film's cinematography, courtesy of Miguel Fabie III, Tony Ponti, and Ruben Lee, is superb: a feat that should be commended to the high heavens if we are to believe the words of Diaz, that eighty percent of the film was shot with available light. Its editing by Ron Dale, despite the numerous complaints about the film's length, is brilliant, each shot remaining on the screen long enough to provoke and let linger the film's various ideas.
Batang West Side is about a lot of things. It's about Fil-Ams, the American dream, family, infidelity, secrets, Martial Law, drugs, reflection, decisions, friendship, identity, patriotism, responsibility, and the collective murdering of the Filipino soul. It's about questions more than it is about answers, and it's about making us think, probe, examine, and ultimately reflect.
The bulk of Batang West Side is spent following a detective trying to answer the questions behind the death of Hanzel, but the case is never resolved. Who did kill Hanzel - gangsters? Drug addicts? His mother's lover? Himself? The film doesn't attempt to give any answers, and it's only fitting that it doesn't. On numerous occasions, our protagonist, Mijarez, is asked tough questions-- by his therapist, by Hanzel's mother, by the documentarian, among others. His answer each time speaks volumes, of him, of us, of our mentality:
`I don't know'.
What director Lav Diaz has done with Batang West Side is craft a film so thorough in its dissection of its subject, and so engaging in its handling, that to watch it, in its entirety, is nothing short of a cathartic experience. It may just as well be us in the place of Joel Torre in the film's last few frames, he alone in the middle of the cold New Jersey night, us alone with our thoughts in the middle of a cold movie theater, exhaling our repressed burdens and inhaling peace of mind.
This is the first film review written by Alexis Tioseco. He wrote it on April 23, 2003.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
'Impiyerno' lyrics:
Words and music by Lav Diaz
I. Paalam (Haiku)
Balot ang bundok
Ng puting alapaap
Malayong musa
Haplos ng ambon
Anino mong nagdaan
Naaaninag
Hampas ng ulan
Lihim na kalungkutan
Nananambitan
Taghoy ng gabi
Dahon kang naglalayag
Sa panaginip
Rosas sa pader
Gumagapang na lungsod
Nangungulila
Patlang sa buwan
Nakaguhit mong anyo
Sa kalawakan
Dalit ng hangin
Pangamba ng taglamig
Isang paglisan
Gintong panahon
Hiram na kapalaran
Pamamaalam
Paalam... paalam... paalam...
II. I'll Be Gone
He was telling a story
It was a Russian story
It was a film of Andre Tarkovsky
It was about the girl in a mirror
He said, I can't forget her
Now I only see her in the vastness, in the blankness, in the madness of my dreams.
She said she hates the city so much
And she wrote some poetry at night
And we talked about philosophy and ideology
She said, she cares so much about life and me
She'll never forget me, she'll never forgive me
But she still hopes to see me someday.
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
He is writing a story
And the premise is on history
And when he shoots his movie
There'll be no use of Stanislavsky
All the actors must be free, free
And we'll be working hard all day.
And then she smiled at me at the counter
It wasn't the first time that I see her
She untied her hair and pressed the coffeemaker
She said, "Man, why are you always here?
Why are you always alone?
Are you waiting for somebody out there?"
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
Now, it's cold and dry in Quezon City
She's so tired she couldn't cry, it's February
My gift for her is poster of a movie
It's all about West Side Avenue in Jersey City
She lives all alone now
She lives in a dark, dark room
She only comes out at night
She walks the dark streets
And hopes to meet somebody out there.
The day she left for New York City
The cold's a killer out there in the story
She said, 'Oh God, please help preserve my country
All the theaters are closed
There's nothing here for me
I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I’m leaving now
But I still love you, Baby'
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
III. Cold
The streets are cold and you worry
Now you're walking with your story
You've been dreaming of home
You've been driving alone
You say you're lost and weary
You feel so dead and empty.
When I tried to talk to you
You didn't listen at all
You say the sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something;s good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you.
What's the cause
What's your story
Some things seem lost
Some things look dirty
This world is old and cold
You hold your head and fold
Your eyes are dark and dreary
Your voice is sad and heavy
When your friends come to you
You didn't listen at all
The sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
The waves of dawn are still roaring
But in your head the world is burning
In your head every thing's turning
In your head somebody's screaming
Please, rest your feet and stay
Please, rest your soul and see
That something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you.
IV. Awit ni Patricia
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
Sa pagdalaw ng gabi
At pagtighaw ng alinsangan
Nanakaw ng sandali
Nang di mawalay sa isipan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng pag-alinlangan
Lalagi sa aking tabi
Alaala ng iyong pagpisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinihintay-hintay kita
Hinihintay, hinihintay.
Sa pagbalot ng dilim
At pagtahimik ng lansangan
Idadako ang paningin
Sa pinto ng panambitan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng kahinaan
Laging kong tatandaan
Ang dahilan ng 'yong paglisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
V. Dead River
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, don't wake me
Please, don't wake me
Please don't wake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
My tears flow on this dead river
My tears flow on this dead river
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me.
VI. Ang Pinagdaanang Buhay
Paggising mo sa isang umaga
Walang kasamang nakaabang
Walang kaibigang naghihintay
Nangungulila ka sa 'yong pag-iisa.
Naglalaro sa 'yong isipan
Ang dating daang binabagtas
Napabayaang mga bakas
Isang pangarap na di na natupad.
Paghakbang mo sa lansangan
Naroon sila, nakamasid
Mga aninong nakasunod
Mga multo ng 'yong kahapon.
Nakikibaka ka sa araw-araw
Gumagapang sa karimlan
Lumalaban na mapunan
Ang panghihina ng 'yong kamalayan.
Sa pagdating ng labis na kapaguran
Nilulunod ng panahon
Umaasa kang mawawala
Ang bigat ng 'yong mga dalahin.
Sana'y humupa rin ang unos
Maglunoy ka sa tag-ulan
Yakapin mo ang kawalan
Huwag kang matakot sa 'yong pag-iisa.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang mukhang nakatungo
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang larawang naglalaho
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Mga pangalang papalayo
Mga aninong naglalaho
Sa isang mundo na 'yong iiwanan.
VII. Ina ng Nawawala
Siya's isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Si Porfirio ay binata na
Kailan lang ay college na
Tanging pangarap niya
Mapagtapos ng karera
Baka natrapik siya
Ang laging sambit niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Sa hapunan ay wala pa
Mahal niyang asawa
Kaylaon nang wala
Mag-isang iginapang niya
Ang buhay nilang mag-ina
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Ang isang katulad mo
Sa mundo ay dakila.
Anak, mag-ingat ka
Ang laging habol niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Ay papasok na sa eskwela.
Di alam ni Aling Maria
Si Porfirio's kasama
Sa eskwela't sa kalsada
Humahanay sa martsa
Isang araw sa Mendiola
Si Porfirio'y kasama
Nagkagulong bigla
At may dumukot sa kanya
Si Aling Maria
Magdamag sa bintana
Huling balita niya
Si Porfirio ay nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Ngayon ay wala na
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Kabilang na sa nawawala.
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Wala nang nagawa
Sa kaapihang dinanas niya
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Katinuan ay nawala
Dahil sa hapis na di mabata
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Huwag kang mag-alala
Siya'y aming idadambana
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Mapalad kang ina
Anak mo'y dakila.
VIII. Pray
She curls on her pillow
She closes the window
The rooms so frozen and dry
And she hears a lullaby.
He hits the highway sign
It's the spirit of the wine
The road's so dusty and he's tired
He hears a friend just died.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
He crosses the river
Lives with a sinner
He sails the seas and skies
He writes those long goodbyes
She lights a cigarette
Her face a silhouette
She waits and waits at the street corner
'Though she knows it's over.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
The walks are longer
The talks are stronger
It was the best defense he's told
When silence couldn't hold.
She couldn't stand to look
When his words had made her shook
The distance tough between them now
They gave up on their vow.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
His thoughts are wont to tell
That living here is hell
She says, that's not really the case, my friend
You know, it's easy to pretend.
Another glass of wine
Her life is on the line
He seeks forgiveness and redemption
That time has never shown.
And pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
IX. Post-apocalyptic Sky
She's rolling on the dice
Slipping on the ice
She's keeping it all inside her head
She's keeping the pain inside her heart
Don't keep it all inside
Find some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
She's taken on the stage
And keeping up her space
She says, this life is just another rehearsal
My life's the ultimate scene in this play
Don't swallow it all inside
Have some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Shadows on the wall
Shadows on the hall
Your voice is hovering but you're not here
This room is empty, this room is full of ghosts
Don't turn your back, my love
Please, give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Debris on the ground
Wild dogs all around
It's all gray, it's all black and white
A soul is hungry, a soul is empty, a soul is lost
Don't go away, my love
Please give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
X. Kumusta Ka
Kumusta ka
Nasaan ka na ngayon
Saan ka humahapon
Ano ang 'yong maghapon
Ano ang 'yong ginagawa
Binabaybay mo ba ang lawa
Gumagawa ka ba ng isang kanta.
Kumusta ka
Balitaan mo ako
Kung anong nakikita mo
Kung anong naiisip mo
Kung anong nangyayari sa 'yo
May bago ka na bang nobela
May bago ka na bang pelikula.
Kumusta ka
May sayawan sa ibayo
May inang nasisiphayo
Umiiyak ang ermitanyo
Silang lahat ay nagkakagulo
Wala na ang ating makata
Makahiga na siya sa bangketa.
Kumusta ka
Nanghaharana ang gabi
Nagsasayaw ang kalapati
Humihingi ng pagtatangi
Kayong lahat ay nakatingin lang sa tabi
Wala na ang ating mga saksi
Sila ngayo'y napipi't nabingi.
Kumusta ka
May parada sa ating baryo
Ang lahat ay kandidato
Walang puwang ang pag-ibig mo
Magwawakas na ang senakulo
Wala na ang ating payaso
Nakakulong na siya sa palasyo.
Kumusta ka
Huwag ka sanang magbabago
Huwag ka sanang magtatago
Kailangan ka namin dito
Kailangan pa ang tulong mo
Saka ka na magpahinga
Marami pa tayong magagawa.
Halika na
Samahan mo ako
Huwag tayong sumuko
Sumulong pa tayo
Lumaban pa tayo
Itaas ang iyong kamao
Isigaw ang boses mo
Lumaban tayo nang husto
Habang tayo ay narito
Habang buo ang ating mga puso.
I. Paalam (Haiku)
Balot ang bundok
Ng puting alapaap
Malayong musa
Haplos ng ambon
Anino mong nagdaan
Naaaninag
Hampas ng ulan
Lihim na kalungkutan
Nananambitan
Taghoy ng gabi
Dahon kang naglalayag
Sa panaginip
Rosas sa pader
Gumagapang na lungsod
Nangungulila
Patlang sa buwan
Nakaguhit mong anyo
Sa kalawakan
Dalit ng hangin
Pangamba ng taglamig
Isang paglisan
Gintong panahon
Hiram na kapalaran
Pamamaalam
Paalam... paalam... paalam...
II. I'll Be Gone
He was telling a story
It was a Russian story
It was a film of Andre Tarkovsky
It was about the girl in a mirror
He said, I can't forget her
Now I only see her in the vastness, in the blankness, in the madness of my dreams.
She said she hates the city so much
And she wrote some poetry at night
And we talked about philosophy and ideology
She said, she cares so much about life and me
She'll never forget me, she'll never forgive me
But she still hopes to see me someday.
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
He is writing a story
And the premise is on history
And when he shoots his movie
There'll be no use of Stanislavsky
All the actors must be free, free
And we'll be working hard all day.
And then she smiled at me at the counter
It wasn't the first time that I see her
She untied her hair and pressed the coffeemaker
She said, "Man, why are you always here?
Why are you always alone?
Are you waiting for somebody out there?"
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
Now, it's cold and dry in Quezon City
She's so tired she couldn't cry, it's February
My gift for her is poster of a movie
It's all about West Side Avenue in Jersey City
She lives all alone now
She lives in a dark, dark room
She only comes out at night
She walks the dark streets
And hopes to meet somebody out there.
The day she left for New York City
The cold's a killer out there in the story
She said, 'Oh God, please help preserve my country
All the theaters are closed
There's nothing here for me
I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I’m leaving now
But I still love you, Baby'
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
III. Cold
The streets are cold and you worry
Now you're walking with your story
You've been dreaming of home
You've been driving alone
You say you're lost and weary
You feel so dead and empty.
When I tried to talk to you
You didn't listen at all
You say the sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something;s good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you.
What's the cause
What's your story
Some things seem lost
Some things look dirty
This world is old and cold
You hold your head and fold
Your eyes are dark and dreary
Your voice is sad and heavy
When your friends come to you
You didn't listen at all
The sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
The waves of dawn are still roaring
But in your head the world is burning
In your head every thing's turning
In your head somebody's screaming
Please, rest your feet and stay
Please, rest your soul and see
That something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you.
IV. Awit ni Patricia
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
Sa pagdalaw ng gabi
At pagtighaw ng alinsangan
Nanakaw ng sandali
Nang di mawalay sa isipan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng pag-alinlangan
Lalagi sa aking tabi
Alaala ng iyong pagpisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinihintay-hintay kita
Hinihintay, hinihintay.
Sa pagbalot ng dilim
At pagtahimik ng lansangan
Idadako ang paningin
Sa pinto ng panambitan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng kahinaan
Laging kong tatandaan
Ang dahilan ng 'yong paglisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
V. Dead River
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, don't wake me
Please, don't wake me
Please don't wake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
My tears flow on this dead river
My tears flow on this dead river
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me.
VI. Ang Pinagdaanang Buhay
Paggising mo sa isang umaga
Walang kasamang nakaabang
Walang kaibigang naghihintay
Nangungulila ka sa 'yong pag-iisa.
Naglalaro sa 'yong isipan
Ang dating daang binabagtas
Napabayaang mga bakas
Isang pangarap na di na natupad.
Paghakbang mo sa lansangan
Naroon sila, nakamasid
Mga aninong nakasunod
Mga multo ng 'yong kahapon.
Nakikibaka ka sa araw-araw
Gumagapang sa karimlan
Lumalaban na mapunan
Ang panghihina ng 'yong kamalayan.
Sa pagdating ng labis na kapaguran
Nilulunod ng panahon
Umaasa kang mawawala
Ang bigat ng 'yong mga dalahin.
Sana'y humupa rin ang unos
Maglunoy ka sa tag-ulan
Yakapin mo ang kawalan
Huwag kang matakot sa 'yong pag-iisa.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang mukhang nakatungo
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang larawang naglalaho
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Mga pangalang papalayo
Mga aninong naglalaho
Sa isang mundo na 'yong iiwanan.
VII. Ina ng Nawawala
Siya's isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Si Porfirio ay binata na
Kailan lang ay college na
Tanging pangarap niya
Mapagtapos ng karera
Baka natrapik siya
Ang laging sambit niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Sa hapunan ay wala pa
Mahal niyang asawa
Kaylaon nang wala
Mag-isang iginapang niya
Ang buhay nilang mag-ina
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Ang isang katulad mo
Sa mundo ay dakila.
Anak, mag-ingat ka
Ang laging habol niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Ay papasok na sa eskwela.
Di alam ni Aling Maria
Si Porfirio's kasama
Sa eskwela't sa kalsada
Humahanay sa martsa
Isang araw sa Mendiola
Si Porfirio'y kasama
Nagkagulong bigla
At may dumukot sa kanya
Si Aling Maria
Magdamag sa bintana
Huling balita niya
Si Porfirio ay nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Ngayon ay wala na
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Kabilang na sa nawawala.
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Wala nang nagawa
Sa kaapihang dinanas niya
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Katinuan ay nawala
Dahil sa hapis na di mabata
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Huwag kang mag-alala
Siya'y aming idadambana
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Mapalad kang ina
Anak mo'y dakila.
VIII. Pray
She curls on her pillow
She closes the window
The rooms so frozen and dry
And she hears a lullaby.
He hits the highway sign
It's the spirit of the wine
The road's so dusty and he's tired
He hears a friend just died.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
He crosses the river
Lives with a sinner
He sails the seas and skies
He writes those long goodbyes
She lights a cigarette
Her face a silhouette
She waits and waits at the street corner
'Though she knows it's over.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
The walks are longer
The talks are stronger
It was the best defense he's told
When silence couldn't hold.
She couldn't stand to look
When his words had made her shook
The distance tough between them now
They gave up on their vow.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
His thoughts are wont to tell
That living here is hell
She says, that's not really the case, my friend
You know, it's easy to pretend.
Another glass of wine
Her life is on the line
He seeks forgiveness and redemption
That time has never shown.
And pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
IX. Post-apocalyptic Sky
She's rolling on the dice
Slipping on the ice
She's keeping it all inside her head
She's keeping the pain inside her heart
Don't keep it all inside
Find some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
She's taken on the stage
And keeping up her space
She says, this life is just another rehearsal
My life's the ultimate scene in this play
Don't swallow it all inside
Have some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Shadows on the wall
Shadows on the hall
Your voice is hovering but you're not here
This room is empty, this room is full of ghosts
Don't turn your back, my love
Please, give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Debris on the ground
Wild dogs all around
It's all gray, it's all black and white
A soul is hungry, a soul is empty, a soul is lost
Don't go away, my love
Please give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
X. Kumusta Ka
Kumusta ka
Nasaan ka na ngayon
Saan ka humahapon
Ano ang 'yong maghapon
Ano ang 'yong ginagawa
Binabaybay mo ba ang lawa
Gumagawa ka ba ng isang kanta.
Kumusta ka
Balitaan mo ako
Kung anong nakikita mo
Kung anong naiisip mo
Kung anong nangyayari sa 'yo
May bago ka na bang nobela
May bago ka na bang pelikula.
Kumusta ka
May sayawan sa ibayo
May inang nasisiphayo
Umiiyak ang ermitanyo
Silang lahat ay nagkakagulo
Wala na ang ating makata
Makahiga na siya sa bangketa.
Kumusta ka
Nanghaharana ang gabi
Nagsasayaw ang kalapati
Humihingi ng pagtatangi
Kayong lahat ay nakatingin lang sa tabi
Wala na ang ating mga saksi
Sila ngayo'y napipi't nabingi.
Kumusta ka
May parada sa ating baryo
Ang lahat ay kandidato
Walang puwang ang pag-ibig mo
Magwawakas na ang senakulo
Wala na ang ating payaso
Nakakulong na siya sa palasyo.
Kumusta ka
Huwag ka sanang magbabago
Huwag ka sanang magtatago
Kailangan ka namin dito
Kailangan pa ang tulong mo
Saka ka na magpahinga
Marami pa tayong magagawa.
Halika na
Samahan mo ako
Huwag tayong sumuko
Sumulong pa tayo
Lumaban pa tayo
Itaas ang iyong kamao
Isigaw ang boses mo
Lumaban tayo nang husto
Habang tayo ay narito
Habang buo ang ating mga puso.
“Impiyerno: Songs From & Inspired by the Cinema of Lav Diaz” (3rd .mov International Digital Film Festival)
By Pocholo Concepcion
If people believe that life’s purpose is to find happiness, this CD may either comfort them or drive them nuts. The 10 songs in “Impiyerno” are relentless in their narratives of pain, so that in the end one feels fortunate just to be alive.
The story goes that Lavrente Diaz, aka Lav, kingpin of Pinoy alternative filmmaking, was persuaded to record songs he wrote (in his other life as a dabbling musician) by colleague Khavn De La Cruz in time for the 3rd .mov film fest.
The idea is that De La Cruz, festival director and the album's producer, wants to present Philippine independent cinema's links to music and literature, in which case Diaz, whose writer’s roots and passion are fueled by rock ‘n’ roll, is a worthy subject.
The recording session, in true punk DIY fashion, was done in four hours, with all the songs nailed in one take, even as Diaz was coming down with the flu. Such circumstances lend an eerie sense of authenticity to the album’s dreary mood: Diaz’s voice cracks in a few tracks and his overall performance projects a persona who knows desolation like the back of his hand.
In Diaz’s songs, a couple of which (“Paalam,” “Awit ni Patricia”) are heard in his films, recurring images of long, dark, rainy nights abound; various characters contemplate their agonies; some walk away with festering wounds in their hearts. The earliest tune he wrote, “Ina ng Nawawala,” was inspired by a bloody scene: Lean Alejandro’s assassination in 1987.
In one track, “Cold,” a rare positive line is heard: “Something’s good in you.” Though it sounds more like a plea to the dejected.
The album’s statement, Diaz writes in the liner notes, is: “There is no cure to sadness.” But the way Diaz interprets the experience, with a touch of Neil Young on acoustic guitar, and traces of Bob Dylan, Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen on vocals, should take away the frown.
From The Philippine Daily Inquirer
If people believe that life’s purpose is to find happiness, this CD may either comfort them or drive them nuts. The 10 songs in “Impiyerno” are relentless in their narratives of pain, so that in the end one feels fortunate just to be alive.
The story goes that Lavrente Diaz, aka Lav, kingpin of Pinoy alternative filmmaking, was persuaded to record songs he wrote (in his other life as a dabbling musician) by colleague Khavn De La Cruz in time for the 3rd .mov film fest.
The idea is that De La Cruz, festival director and the album's producer, wants to present Philippine independent cinema's links to music and literature, in which case Diaz, whose writer’s roots and passion are fueled by rock ‘n’ roll, is a worthy subject.
The recording session, in true punk DIY fashion, was done in four hours, with all the songs nailed in one take, even as Diaz was coming down with the flu. Such circumstances lend an eerie sense of authenticity to the album’s dreary mood: Diaz’s voice cracks in a few tracks and his overall performance projects a persona who knows desolation like the back of his hand.
In Diaz’s songs, a couple of which (“Paalam,” “Awit ni Patricia”) are heard in his films, recurring images of long, dark, rainy nights abound; various characters contemplate their agonies; some walk away with festering wounds in their hearts. The earliest tune he wrote, “Ina ng Nawawala,” was inspired by a bloody scene: Lean Alejandro’s assassination in 1987.
In one track, “Cold,” a rare positive line is heard: “Something’s good in you.” Though it sounds more like a plea to the dejected.
The album’s statement, Diaz writes in the liner notes, is: “There is no cure to sadness.” But the way Diaz interprets the experience, with a touch of Neil Young on acoustic guitar, and traces of Bob Dylan, Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen on vocals, should take away the frown.
From The Philippine Daily Inquirer
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Beyond the Time Barrier
by Christoph Huber
Hollywood may have taught us that It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, but Lav Diaz reminds us that the world is also sad sad sad sad. And if that repeptition sounds crushing to you (whereas the one in the title of Stanley Kramer's Hollywood film is just there to tickle), you are on the right track: Inaugurated by the epic masterpiece Evolution of a Filipino Family (Ebolusyon ng isang pamilyang pilipino, 2004), the Filipino's director recent cycle of black-and-white video works, with their seemingly unwieldy lengths - inbetween seven and eleven hours - represent a unique achievement and offer unique experiences in the history of cinema. Their length is not an affectation, but a necessity, in reaching for heights of expression that the conventional (and commercial) "rules" of moviemaking deny. They demand (but also: allow, for their durational strategy is ultimately liberating) uncommon dedication and concentration by the viewer, whose patience is rewarded with a physical experience of time and a stunning, singularly concrete feeling about their spaces, emotions and characters unlike almost anything else. The film's world starts to feel lived-in (and in that sense, Diaz' penchant for unbroken marathon screenings of his work is all the more understandable: bringing food and other stuff to the cinema, you have to make the screening room something like your living room: a lived-in place as well).
Which in a roundabout way, brings us to the ingeniously titled Melancholia, (after all, already Hippocrates characterized as the symptoms of melancholia "all fears and despondencies, if they last a long time" - a perfect match for the director's temporal strategies.) For Diaz' most recent film, the highlight of the Orrizonti section at the 2008 Venice film festival, whose main prize it deservedly won, is on the one hand a deeply moving seven-and-a- half-hour lament about resistance against all odds following through on the now somewhat familiar strategies of the filmmakers' recent work. On the other hand, its remarkable structure and subtle revelations of layers, adopting a (self-)critical stance (both in respect to its characters as well as to itself - and both political as well as aesthetic) mark it as maybe the boldest experiment yet in Diaz's daring reconception of cinema-as-we- know it.
In the beginng Melancholia may seem linear and following the logic of a conventional narrative - a tale of a prostitute, a pimp and a nun in a small town in the Philippines, described with Diaz' characteristic attention to details and rhythms of life, of perception and thought. But in the first of two decisive breaks -roughly after a third, respectively two thirds into the film - these carefully rendered lives prove to be chimeras made up to deal with the pain of existence and the throwbacks in the fight for freedom equality. From then on, sounds and motives (not just visual ones) begin to dominate the flow: A woman wailing unforgettably in the jungle, her sad ballad haunting the proceedings, as the losses and crushed hopes of the protagonists become ever clearer. Ever the commited filmmaker, Diaz not only insists on the political dimension - for all its depression, Melancholia is nothing less than a cri de coeur for continuing revolution -, but also incorporates fascinating detours into the situation of Filipino filmmaking (reminding one, for instance, of the crucial Brocka subplot in Ebolusyon).
"Why is there so much sadness and too much madness in this world? Is happiness just a concept? Is living just a process to measure man's pain?", asked Diaz in his director's note accompanying the film's description in the Venice Festival catalogue. The answers to the last to questions seemingly remain ambivalent: the wounded world of Melancholia may suggest desperation at times, but the effort of the characters to struggle on - and the efforts of Diaz himnself, who from what are nearly no-budget filmmaking circumstances, wrestles a richness, both philosophical and artistic, that all those pricier films daren't even dream of - also touches deeply, with a renewed sense of hope and commitment that remains incorruptible even under the most adverse of circumstances. Beyond the time barrier, Diaz' filmmaking manages to open reservoirs mostly untapped by cinematic (or "visual") art. There is a long sequence of guerillas in the jungle near the end, whose radical means and spiritual dimension begin to suggest what Steven Soderbergh recently persumably tried for, and miserably failed to achieve in his two-part epic about Che(Guevara). One of Diaz' fighters writes in his notebook: "I now realized the lyrical madness to this struggle. It is all about sadness. It is about my sadness. It is all 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." By bearing witness to this sadness, without simply succumbing to it, by speaking out about to the woes of the world and our times, Diaz offers a poetic approach that may be somewhat disillusioned, yet is clearly driven by an unrelenting urge and a refusal to give in, whether to the (mostly unwritten) laws of the market, to the (obvious, but mostly circumscribed) failure of politics, or to the (downplayed) worldwide decline of ideology, solidarity and humanist values. As Robert Burton noted in "The Anatomy of Melancholy" back in 1621: "All poets are mad." Lav Diaz may be one of the maddest of them
all.
Christoph Huber, Vienna 2008
Hollywood may have taught us that It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, but Lav Diaz reminds us that the world is also sad sad sad sad. And if that repeptition sounds crushing to you (whereas the one in the title of Stanley Kramer's Hollywood film is just there to tickle), you are on the right track: Inaugurated by the epic masterpiece Evolution of a Filipino Family (Ebolusyon ng isang pamilyang pilipino, 2004), the Filipino's director recent cycle of black-and-white video works, with their seemingly unwieldy lengths - inbetween seven and eleven hours - represent a unique achievement and offer unique experiences in the history of cinema. Their length is not an affectation, but a necessity, in reaching for heights of expression that the conventional (and commercial) "rules" of moviemaking deny. They demand (but also: allow, for their durational strategy is ultimately liberating) uncommon dedication and concentration by the viewer, whose patience is rewarded with a physical experience of time and a stunning, singularly concrete feeling about their spaces, emotions and characters unlike almost anything else. The film's world starts to feel lived-in (and in that sense, Diaz' penchant for unbroken marathon screenings of his work is all the more understandable: bringing food and other stuff to the cinema, you have to make the screening room something like your living room: a lived-in place as well).
Which in a roundabout way, brings us to the ingeniously titled Melancholia, (after all, already Hippocrates characterized as the symptoms of melancholia "all fears and despondencies, if they last a long time" - a perfect match for the director's temporal strategies.) For Diaz' most recent film, the highlight of the Orrizonti section at the 2008 Venice film festival, whose main prize it deservedly won, is on the one hand a deeply moving seven-and-a- half-hour lament about resistance against all odds following through on the now somewhat familiar strategies of the filmmakers' recent work. On the other hand, its remarkable structure and subtle revelations of layers, adopting a (self-)critical stance (both in respect to its characters as well as to itself - and both political as well as aesthetic) mark it as maybe the boldest experiment yet in Diaz's daring reconception of cinema-as-we- know it.
In the beginng Melancholia may seem linear and following the logic of a conventional narrative - a tale of a prostitute, a pimp and a nun in a small town in the Philippines, described with Diaz' characteristic attention to details and rhythms of life, of perception and thought. But in the first of two decisive breaks -roughly after a third, respectively two thirds into the film - these carefully rendered lives prove to be chimeras made up to deal with the pain of existence and the throwbacks in the fight for freedom equality. From then on, sounds and motives (not just visual ones) begin to dominate the flow: A woman wailing unforgettably in the jungle, her sad ballad haunting the proceedings, as the losses and crushed hopes of the protagonists become ever clearer. Ever the commited filmmaker, Diaz not only insists on the political dimension - for all its depression, Melancholia is nothing less than a cri de coeur for continuing revolution -, but also incorporates fascinating detours into the situation of Filipino filmmaking (reminding one, for instance, of the crucial Brocka subplot in Ebolusyon).
"Why is there so much sadness and too much madness in this world? Is happiness just a concept? Is living just a process to measure man's pain?", asked Diaz in his director's note accompanying the film's description in the Venice Festival catalogue. The answers to the last to questions seemingly remain ambivalent: the wounded world of Melancholia may suggest desperation at times, but the effort of the characters to struggle on - and the efforts of Diaz himnself, who from what are nearly no-budget filmmaking circumstances, wrestles a richness, both philosophical and artistic, that all those pricier films daren't even dream of - also touches deeply, with a renewed sense of hope and commitment that remains incorruptible even under the most adverse of circumstances. Beyond the time barrier, Diaz' filmmaking manages to open reservoirs mostly untapped by cinematic (or "visual") art. There is a long sequence of guerillas in the jungle near the end, whose radical means and spiritual dimension begin to suggest what Steven Soderbergh recently persumably tried for, and miserably failed to achieve in his two-part epic about Che(Guevara). One of Diaz' fighters writes in his notebook: "I now realized the lyrical madness to this struggle. It is all about sadness. It is about my sadness. It is all 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." By bearing witness to this sadness, without simply succumbing to it, by speaking out about to the woes of the world and our times, Diaz offers a poetic approach that may be somewhat disillusioned, yet is clearly driven by an unrelenting urge and a refusal to give in, whether to the (mostly unwritten) laws of the market, to the (obvious, but mostly circumscribed) failure of politics, or to the (downplayed) worldwide decline of ideology, solidarity and humanist values. As Robert Burton noted in "The Anatomy of Melancholy" back in 1621: "All poets are mad." Lav Diaz may be one of the maddest of them
all.
Christoph Huber, Vienna 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sabayang Panahon, Produksyon ng Alaala At Proaktibong Cinema
ni Roland Tolentino
Rebyu ng “Death In the Land of Encantos” (Kagadanan sa banwaan ning ga Engkanto, ) ni Lav Diaz
Hindi ang kahabaan ng oras ang isyu sa pelikula ni Lav Diaz. Sa Engkanto, siyam na oras ang palabas, tulad ng naunang Ebolusyon ng Pamilyang Pilipino at Heremias. Sino ang handang maglaan ng isang araw ng kanilang gising na buhay para sa pelikula ni Diaz?
Sa aking palagay, isinulat ni Nil Baskar sa “Poetic Post-mortem” ang pinakamataas na pagpuri sa mga pelikula ni Diaz:
[...] Death in the Land of Encantos proved to be a wholly enchanting experience, both a lesson in cinema’s capacity to profoundly shape time and space, as well as a rediscovery of its fundamental gestures, of conceiving an associating images with true artistic and political necessities. It confirmed that the work of Lav Diaz is not unique because of its epic length, but because of its original ideas and its confidence in telling a story with purely cinematic means as something that is becoming quite rate and even strange to observe in these times, when it seems that so much of contemporary cinema has elected a noncommittal and ironic detachment from everything and anything.
Tatlong antas ng panlipunang tunggalian ang tinatahi ng Engkanto. Una, ang debastasyon ng supertyphoon sa Bikol, bilang kahindik-hindik na topography ng mga aktwal na dokumentaryo ng mga biktima, at ng binabalikang lugar ng bida, si Benjamin Agusan. May tunay nga bang babalikan pa?
Ikalawa, ang personal na biyahe ng pag-alis at pagbabalik, ang “panunumbalik” ni Agusan. Existensyal na iniimbistigahan muli ang kanyang buhay bilang makata, kasamang artista, at kamamamayan, at sinusuma ang halaga ng mga salik na ito sa kanyang pagkatao. Paninimbang na parating kulang.
Ikatlo, ang fasistikong pambansang politika na nagsiwalat ng pagkawalang-bahala sa mga nabiktima ng bagyo, kabangkaratohen ng moral na uniberso ng lipunan, at karahasang minumulto at literal na tinotortyur si Agusan. Na tulad ng bagyo, malawakan ang saklaw at epekto. Pero di tulad ng bagyo, gawa ng naghaharing uri bilang pang-araw-araw na operasyon ng panlipunang buhay.
Familyar ang mga tunggalian ito sa iba pang pelikula ni Diaz. Sa Batang Westside, ang pulis na nag-iimbestiga ng pagpaslang sa isang Filipinong migrante sa US ay isang dating tortyurer sa diktaduryang Marcos. Sa Ebolusyon, ang pamilya ng maralitang tagabundok ay ipit pa rin sa pambansang politikang lalong nagpapahirap sa kanila.
Ang produkto ng mga pelikula ay isang pag-aresto sa panahon: sabayang pinagsisiksikan ang panahong nakalipas, kasalukuyan at hinaharap; na tila isinasaad na ang hinaharap ay nakalugmak sa isang kasalukuyang iniligmak din ng nakalipas. Kaya rin isinasaad ang kondisyon ng imposibilidad, ng di-tuwirang pagharap sa hinaharap.
Sa pamamagitan ng pagkahon sa tatlong panahon ni Agusan at ng bansa, lumilikha ng alaala ng lipunang patuloy na pinangingibabawan ng mapanupil na politika. Kaya literal at epistemikong naghihirap dahil hindi naputol ang panahon ng pambansang politikang nagbibigay-buhay at substansya sa kasaysayan.
Kung inaresto ang panahon, ito ay para likhain ang interkoneksyon ng mga sandali. At sa temporal—kahit pa siyam na oras ito ng pelikula—ipinapatunghay ang produksyon ng kontraryong alaala (counter-memory). Ito ang panahon ng dikdaturyang Marcos sa kagyat na nakaraan, o ang konkretisasyon ng fasismo ng estado sa anumang panahon.
Pero ito ay panahon din ng pakikipaglaban. Ang alaalang inilalatag din ay alaala ng pakikipagtunggali, na hindi lahat ay nangatulog sa hele ng latay ng fasismo, noon at ngayon. Na parang masangsang na babala para sa panahon sa hinaharap.
Ang natutunghayan sa kontraryong kolektibong pag-alaala ay ang proaktibong kalikasan ng cinema—na nakakapagmulat ito sa politikal na ugnayan ng filmic at historikal na realidad. Di tulad ng Hollywood at mainstream cinema, binubura ng suture at continuity ang magkatuwang na ugnay ng manonood na mamamayan din, para lumikha ng identifikasyon sa white, Anglo-Saxon, upper-middle class values.
Sa pamamagitan ng long take (umaabot ng kinse minutos ang walang sawang paglalalakad, halimbawa) at long shot (na nagapatampok sa devastasyon ng Bikol sa ironical na backdrop ng Mayon, ang “world’s most perfectly shaped cone” na bulkan), ibinubuyanyang ang kapasidad ng cinema para i-cite o i-quote ang historikal na realidad, ang pinaka-topography na nagbibigay-landscape sa pelikula at realidad nito.
Black-and-white ang pelikula na nagbibigay-diin sa dialektika ng katotohanan at kamangmangan, ng karahasan at kasiningan bilang kalakaran sa pang-araw-araw na pakikipagtunggali. Sa huli ng pelikula, ang eksena ng tortyur kay Agusan ay tila pagpapalaot sa animong irony sa pelikula: multo na lamang ba ang nagbibiyahe, na ang natunghayang pelikula ang kanyang paghahanap sa sariling iwinaksi ng estado? Paano magkukuwento ang winalang multo?
Idagdag pa rito ang diskursibong gamit sa cinema. Sa gitna ng devastasyon, ang argumentasyon sa sining, artista, intelektwal na kapital at halaga ng buhay ay tinatalakay ni Agusan, kasama ng kanyang mga kaibigang artista. Sa pamamagitan nila nagkakaroon ng muling kulay at substansya ang buhay na binabalikan at isinasabuhay ni Agusan.
At self-reflexive rin ang pelikula sa sarili nitong pagpipinta sa kantong sahig. Ano ang laban ng sining sa karahasan ng pambansang politika? Na sinasagot din naman nito sa kanyang artikulasyon ng cinematikong paradox sa lipunang Filipino.
Sa pamamagitan ng pakikipagtunggali lamang nagiging mayabong ang lupang pagtataniman ng sining. Walang ibang panahon ang fasistang politika, walang ibang panahon din ang pakikipagtunggali ng sining.
Roland Tolentino
Rebyu ng “Death In the Land of Encantos” (Kagadanan sa banwaan ning ga Engkanto, ) ni Lav Diaz
Hindi ang kahabaan ng oras ang isyu sa pelikula ni Lav Diaz. Sa Engkanto, siyam na oras ang palabas, tulad ng naunang Ebolusyon ng Pamilyang Pilipino at Heremias. Sino ang handang maglaan ng isang araw ng kanilang gising na buhay para sa pelikula ni Diaz?
Sa aking palagay, isinulat ni Nil Baskar sa “Poetic Post-mortem” ang pinakamataas na pagpuri sa mga pelikula ni Diaz:
[...] Death in the Land of Encantos proved to be a wholly enchanting experience, both a lesson in cinema’s capacity to profoundly shape time and space, as well as a rediscovery of its fundamental gestures, of conceiving an associating images with true artistic and political necessities. It confirmed that the work of Lav Diaz is not unique because of its epic length, but because of its original ideas and its confidence in telling a story with purely cinematic means as something that is becoming quite rate and even strange to observe in these times, when it seems that so much of contemporary cinema has elected a noncommittal and ironic detachment from everything and anything.
Tatlong antas ng panlipunang tunggalian ang tinatahi ng Engkanto. Una, ang debastasyon ng supertyphoon sa Bikol, bilang kahindik-hindik na topography ng mga aktwal na dokumentaryo ng mga biktima, at ng binabalikang lugar ng bida, si Benjamin Agusan. May tunay nga bang babalikan pa?
Ikalawa, ang personal na biyahe ng pag-alis at pagbabalik, ang “panunumbalik” ni Agusan. Existensyal na iniimbistigahan muli ang kanyang buhay bilang makata, kasamang artista, at kamamamayan, at sinusuma ang halaga ng mga salik na ito sa kanyang pagkatao. Paninimbang na parating kulang.
Ikatlo, ang fasistikong pambansang politika na nagsiwalat ng pagkawalang-bahala sa mga nabiktima ng bagyo, kabangkaratohen ng moral na uniberso ng lipunan, at karahasang minumulto at literal na tinotortyur si Agusan. Na tulad ng bagyo, malawakan ang saklaw at epekto. Pero di tulad ng bagyo, gawa ng naghaharing uri bilang pang-araw-araw na operasyon ng panlipunang buhay.
Familyar ang mga tunggalian ito sa iba pang pelikula ni Diaz. Sa Batang Westside, ang pulis na nag-iimbestiga ng pagpaslang sa isang Filipinong migrante sa US ay isang dating tortyurer sa diktaduryang Marcos. Sa Ebolusyon, ang pamilya ng maralitang tagabundok ay ipit pa rin sa pambansang politikang lalong nagpapahirap sa kanila.
Ang produkto ng mga pelikula ay isang pag-aresto sa panahon: sabayang pinagsisiksikan ang panahong nakalipas, kasalukuyan at hinaharap; na tila isinasaad na ang hinaharap ay nakalugmak sa isang kasalukuyang iniligmak din ng nakalipas. Kaya rin isinasaad ang kondisyon ng imposibilidad, ng di-tuwirang pagharap sa hinaharap.
Sa pamamagitan ng pagkahon sa tatlong panahon ni Agusan at ng bansa, lumilikha ng alaala ng lipunang patuloy na pinangingibabawan ng mapanupil na politika. Kaya literal at epistemikong naghihirap dahil hindi naputol ang panahon ng pambansang politikang nagbibigay-buhay at substansya sa kasaysayan.
Kung inaresto ang panahon, ito ay para likhain ang interkoneksyon ng mga sandali. At sa temporal—kahit pa siyam na oras ito ng pelikula—ipinapatunghay ang produksyon ng kontraryong alaala (counter-memory). Ito ang panahon ng dikdaturyang Marcos sa kagyat na nakaraan, o ang konkretisasyon ng fasismo ng estado sa anumang panahon.
Pero ito ay panahon din ng pakikipaglaban. Ang alaalang inilalatag din ay alaala ng pakikipagtunggali, na hindi lahat ay nangatulog sa hele ng latay ng fasismo, noon at ngayon. Na parang masangsang na babala para sa panahon sa hinaharap.
Ang natutunghayan sa kontraryong kolektibong pag-alaala ay ang proaktibong kalikasan ng cinema—na nakakapagmulat ito sa politikal na ugnayan ng filmic at historikal na realidad. Di tulad ng Hollywood at mainstream cinema, binubura ng suture at continuity ang magkatuwang na ugnay ng manonood na mamamayan din, para lumikha ng identifikasyon sa white, Anglo-Saxon, upper-middle class values.
Sa pamamagitan ng long take (umaabot ng kinse minutos ang walang sawang paglalalakad, halimbawa) at long shot (na nagapatampok sa devastasyon ng Bikol sa ironical na backdrop ng Mayon, ang “world’s most perfectly shaped cone” na bulkan), ibinubuyanyang ang kapasidad ng cinema para i-cite o i-quote ang historikal na realidad, ang pinaka-topography na nagbibigay-landscape sa pelikula at realidad nito.
Black-and-white ang pelikula na nagbibigay-diin sa dialektika ng katotohanan at kamangmangan, ng karahasan at kasiningan bilang kalakaran sa pang-araw-araw na pakikipagtunggali. Sa huli ng pelikula, ang eksena ng tortyur kay Agusan ay tila pagpapalaot sa animong irony sa pelikula: multo na lamang ba ang nagbibiyahe, na ang natunghayang pelikula ang kanyang paghahanap sa sariling iwinaksi ng estado? Paano magkukuwento ang winalang multo?
Idagdag pa rito ang diskursibong gamit sa cinema. Sa gitna ng devastasyon, ang argumentasyon sa sining, artista, intelektwal na kapital at halaga ng buhay ay tinatalakay ni Agusan, kasama ng kanyang mga kaibigang artista. Sa pamamagitan nila nagkakaroon ng muling kulay at substansya ang buhay na binabalikan at isinasabuhay ni Agusan.
At self-reflexive rin ang pelikula sa sarili nitong pagpipinta sa kantong sahig. Ano ang laban ng sining sa karahasan ng pambansang politika? Na sinasagot din naman nito sa kanyang artikulasyon ng cinematikong paradox sa lipunang Filipino.
Sa pamamagitan ng pakikipagtunggali lamang nagiging mayabong ang lupang pagtataniman ng sining. Walang ibang panahon ang fasistang politika, walang ibang panahon din ang pakikipagtunggali ng sining.
Roland Tolentino
Thursday, September 25, 2008
XXV. Batang West Side
By Francis Cruz
More than being a turning point in Diaz's career as artist, Batang West Side also represents one of the most important junctures in Philippine Cinema, directly or indirectly heralding a new wave of filmmakers who have have pierced and continue piercing the veil of mainstream commercial cinematographic entertainment by making films that are fueled by personal aches and visions.
Batang West Side (West Side Avenue) represents a turning point in Lav Diaz's career. Unrestricted by the demands of commercial filmmaking, Diaz was able to establish himself as an uncompromising and relentless filmmaker. He populates the film's visuals with frequent motionless and staggered shots of fractured souls framed against the desolate and artificial landscapes of New Jersey, and rare close-ups (and when Diaz does indulge in a close-up in the latter part of the film, particularly of Joel Torre as snowflakes settle and melt on his sorrowful face, the effect is utterly tremendous). Shot by cinematographer Miguel Fabie III utilizing whatever light is available over a period of eight months in New Jersey, Batang West Side looks absolutely mesmerizing. The film is elegant in its visual austerity, something that has since then defined Diaz's unique brand of aesthetics, which is always reflective of the crises that his characters seek salvation from. From the sleepy streetlamp-lit alleyways of Batang West Side's foreign cityscape that enunciate the internal turmoils of the troubled immigrants that populate them, Diaz will similarly afflict the endless roads of the Philippine countryside, the farmlands and mines, the typhoon-ravaged towns with the vast emotional weight of his embattled characters.
It's length of five hours is both famous and justified. Of course, compared to Diaz's later features like Ebolusyong ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino (Evolution of a Filipino Family, 2004), Heremias (2006), Kagadanan sa Banwaan Ning Mga Engkanto (Death in Land of Encantos, 2007) and Melancholia (2008) whose running times range from nine to eleven hours, Batang West Side is very short. Diaz's editing is pitch perfect with scenes that extend to several minutes precisely to immerse the audience into the film's disparate reality. The prolonged moments, mostly draped with ominous silence and staticity, invite arduous contemplation on the matters tackled head-on by Diaz. Joey Ayala's sparingly used score has a haunting effect. His melodies are subtle reminders of the country is totally invisible in the film but perpetually lingering.
Torre plays Juan Mijares, an investigator who is tasked to solve the murder of Hanzel Harana (Yul Servo) in West Side Avenue. The investigation serves as mere backdrop. As Mijares delves deeper into Harana's murder, the film further dissolves into a meditation of the ills that burdens the Filipino. Harana dies a defeated youth, plucked from the Philippines by his mother supposedly to rescue him from the motherland's contagious deterioration only to be lured into the shabu (or crystal meth, the drug of choice, cheap and readily available, of the impoverished Filipino youth) trade and the nightly and often violent escapades of the street gangs of New Jersey.
The participants in Harana's life and death in New Jersey are similarly situated. Lolita (Gloria Diaz), Harana's mother, in order to support her family in the Philippines, travels to the United States to marry a wealthy old man, who has been left physically incapacitated by age and disease. Her husband's mansion becomes stage to a Bergmanesque chamber drama, where Lolita is held captive both by her marital affiliation with her useless husband and her asphyxiating love affair with the Filipino helper (Arthur Acuña). As her reason for leaving the Philippines and entering into a loveless marriage was rendered moot by her son's eventual reversal of ideals and demise, her story warps into an existential void where her sacrifice and suffering become pointless. Fundamentally involved are Harana's grandfather, Abdon (Ruben Pizon), and girlfriend, Dolores (Priscilla Almeda), who offer faint glints of hope to Harana's misdirected youth. Their inevitable failure further emphasizes the painful futility of change in a culture that is headstrong with regards to its vices although stubbornly persistent in its struggle for salvation.
Diaz drifts further from the investigation, as Mijares' personal conflicts become more apparent. As the investigation of Harana's murder mutates into the indictment of the Filipino psyche, his initial recurring dreams of his mother (Angel Aquino) graduate into violent nightmares, torturing him to seek redemption from the sins repressed in his self-proclaimed exile to America. Redemption arrives by the exposition of truth through an act of cinema, represented by a documentary filmmaker recording Mijares' confessions. For Diaz, cinema is not and should not merely be a means for escapism, it is also redemptive in its search for truth.
Through the film, Diaz asks a pressing question, "what has become of the Filipino?" His answer is as bleak as the atmosphere he deftly paints. The Filipino, wherever he may be, whatever he has become, is still a Filipino. The Philippine diaspora, caused by the earnest search for greener pastures, is not the panacea that will cure what aches the Philippine psyche. It is merely a temporary displacement, since the blood, the vices, and the virtues, that bind the Filipino people as dictated by its culture and history is as inescapable as the sins that individually haunt them.
More than being a turning point in Diaz's career as artist, Batang West Side also represents one of the most important junctures in Philippine Cinema, directly or indirectly heralding a new wave of filmmakers (the list includes Raya Martin, John Torres, Khavn de la Cruz) who have have pierced and continue piercing the veil of mainstream commercial cinematographic entertainment by making films that are fueled by personal aches and visions. Although there have been filmmakers like Kidlat Tahimik (Mababangong Bangungot (Perfumed Nightmares, 1977), Turumba (1981)), Raymond Red (Bayani (Heroes, 1992), Anino (Shadows, 2000)), and animator Roxlee whose works have opened the floodgates long before Diaz's five-hour masterpiece, it is the epic scope, the undaunted ambition, and the artistic integrity of Batang West Side that beacons the brave and independent spirit that ignites this new generation of Filipino filmmakers.
from Lessons from the School of Inattention, Francis 'Oggs' Cruz, 2008
More than being a turning point in Diaz's career as artist, Batang West Side also represents one of the most important junctures in Philippine Cinema, directly or indirectly heralding a new wave of filmmakers who have have pierced and continue piercing the veil of mainstream commercial cinematographic entertainment by making films that are fueled by personal aches and visions.
Batang West Side (West Side Avenue) represents a turning point in Lav Diaz's career. Unrestricted by the demands of commercial filmmaking, Diaz was able to establish himself as an uncompromising and relentless filmmaker. He populates the film's visuals with frequent motionless and staggered shots of fractured souls framed against the desolate and artificial landscapes of New Jersey, and rare close-ups (and when Diaz does indulge in a close-up in the latter part of the film, particularly of Joel Torre as snowflakes settle and melt on his sorrowful face, the effect is utterly tremendous). Shot by cinematographer Miguel Fabie III utilizing whatever light is available over a period of eight months in New Jersey, Batang West Side looks absolutely mesmerizing. The film is elegant in its visual austerity, something that has since then defined Diaz's unique brand of aesthetics, which is always reflective of the crises that his characters seek salvation from. From the sleepy streetlamp-lit alleyways of Batang West Side's foreign cityscape that enunciate the internal turmoils of the troubled immigrants that populate them, Diaz will similarly afflict the endless roads of the Philippine countryside, the farmlands and mines, the typhoon-ravaged towns with the vast emotional weight of his embattled characters.
It's length of five hours is both famous and justified. Of course, compared to Diaz's later features like Ebolusyong ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino (Evolution of a Filipino Family, 2004), Heremias (2006), Kagadanan sa Banwaan Ning Mga Engkanto (Death in Land of Encantos, 2007) and Melancholia (2008) whose running times range from nine to eleven hours, Batang West Side is very short. Diaz's editing is pitch perfect with scenes that extend to several minutes precisely to immerse the audience into the film's disparate reality. The prolonged moments, mostly draped with ominous silence and staticity, invite arduous contemplation on the matters tackled head-on by Diaz. Joey Ayala's sparingly used score has a haunting effect. His melodies are subtle reminders of the country is totally invisible in the film but perpetually lingering.
Torre plays Juan Mijares, an investigator who is tasked to solve the murder of Hanzel Harana (Yul Servo) in West Side Avenue. The investigation serves as mere backdrop. As Mijares delves deeper into Harana's murder, the film further dissolves into a meditation of the ills that burdens the Filipino. Harana dies a defeated youth, plucked from the Philippines by his mother supposedly to rescue him from the motherland's contagious deterioration only to be lured into the shabu (or crystal meth, the drug of choice, cheap and readily available, of the impoverished Filipino youth) trade and the nightly and often violent escapades of the street gangs of New Jersey.
The participants in Harana's life and death in New Jersey are similarly situated. Lolita (Gloria Diaz), Harana's mother, in order to support her family in the Philippines, travels to the United States to marry a wealthy old man, who has been left physically incapacitated by age and disease. Her husband's mansion becomes stage to a Bergmanesque chamber drama, where Lolita is held captive both by her marital affiliation with her useless husband and her asphyxiating love affair with the Filipino helper (Arthur Acuña). As her reason for leaving the Philippines and entering into a loveless marriage was rendered moot by her son's eventual reversal of ideals and demise, her story warps into an existential void where her sacrifice and suffering become pointless. Fundamentally involved are Harana's grandfather, Abdon (Ruben Pizon), and girlfriend, Dolores (Priscilla Almeda), who offer faint glints of hope to Harana's misdirected youth. Their inevitable failure further emphasizes the painful futility of change in a culture that is headstrong with regards to its vices although stubbornly persistent in its struggle for salvation.
Diaz drifts further from the investigation, as Mijares' personal conflicts become more apparent. As the investigation of Harana's murder mutates into the indictment of the Filipino psyche, his initial recurring dreams of his mother (Angel Aquino) graduate into violent nightmares, torturing him to seek redemption from the sins repressed in his self-proclaimed exile to America. Redemption arrives by the exposition of truth through an act of cinema, represented by a documentary filmmaker recording Mijares' confessions. For Diaz, cinema is not and should not merely be a means for escapism, it is also redemptive in its search for truth.
Through the film, Diaz asks a pressing question, "what has become of the Filipino?" His answer is as bleak as the atmosphere he deftly paints. The Filipino, wherever he may be, whatever he has become, is still a Filipino. The Philippine diaspora, caused by the earnest search for greener pastures, is not the panacea that will cure what aches the Philippine psyche. It is merely a temporary displacement, since the blood, the vices, and the virtues, that bind the Filipino people as dictated by its culture and history is as inescapable as the sins that individually haunt them.
More than being a turning point in Diaz's career as artist, Batang West Side also represents one of the most important junctures in Philippine Cinema, directly or indirectly heralding a new wave of filmmakers (the list includes Raya Martin, John Torres, Khavn de la Cruz) who have have pierced and continue piercing the veil of mainstream commercial cinematographic entertainment by making films that are fueled by personal aches and visions. Although there have been filmmakers like Kidlat Tahimik (Mababangong Bangungot (Perfumed Nightmares, 1977), Turumba (1981)), Raymond Red (Bayani (Heroes, 1992), Anino (Shadows, 2000)), and animator Roxlee whose works have opened the floodgates long before Diaz's five-hour masterpiece, it is the epic scope, the undaunted ambition, and the artistic integrity of Batang West Side that beacons the brave and independent spirit that ignites this new generation of Filipino filmmakers.
from Lessons from the School of Inattention, Francis 'Oggs' Cruz, 2008
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