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.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
“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
Sunday, August 31, 2008
XXIV. Rotterdam Delights aka Asia Expanded, Russia Displayed and China Revisited
The 37th International Film Festival Rotterdam
23 January – 3 February 2008
by Barbara Wurm
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Barbara Wurm is a Berlin- and Vienna-based film historian, critic and programmer (Dok Leipzig). She is currently writing her PhD on Early Soviet Non-Fiction Film and recently co-edited a book on Dziga Vertov.
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If one had the time, if one were able to perceive life and its screens on a multiple level, if one were gifted to grasp the many entirely rounded up festivals within this one festival, the (special, dear, exceptional) International Film Festival Rotterdam (IFFR), one could have started with something extensional and experimental like this: Lav Diaz’s Kagadanan sa banwaan ning mga engkanto (Death in the Land of Encantos), the 540-minute docu-fictional account of a region on the Philippine islands struck by the incredibly strong hurricane Durian in December 2006, a story, loosely knit around the existentially and politically active poet Benjamin Agustan who returns to his devastated native soil after a long stay in Russia, written and directed by Lav Diaz, this wonderful charming contemplative lonely hero who again and again seems to return to his morally and economically shattered home country as if after several longer stop-overs on a completely different (cinematographic) planet. Or with this: Standing Up, Waise Azimi’s second trip (and voluntary embedment) into the heart of darkness of Afghanistan (still and involuntarily at war), a 120-minute (also) Philippine documentary shot in Camp Alamo, the training camp of the allied forces, a serious, harsh, yet unemphatic attempt in realising who they are, these men shaping this War Against Terror on both sides (soldiers here, refugees and unemployed recruits there), a sociologically clear cut picture of a life we usually have no access to, deliberately interrupted by very personal reflections. Or with this: one part of the “Exploding Cinema” section (the framework for the transgression of cinema and its black-box and one-screen-limits as a framework), an intersection of film and art, a series of videos and installations called New Dragon Inns, including works by the Thai master-dragon Apichatpong Weerasethakul (plus some more or less newly introduced names like Uruphong Raksasad, Jakrawal Nilthamrong, Nitipong Thintuphthai, Thunska Pansittivorakul and Thaweesak Srithongdee), some smaller Chinese-Taiwanese border- and gender-crossings as well as a large number of longer videos by Thai, Taiwanese and mainly Chinese artists – the most outstanding of which being Yang Fudong’s Seven Intellectuals in Bamboo Forest Part 1-5 (229 min.) and Wang Bing’s two hallmarks in political filmmaking of respectable length, He Fengming (Fengming, a Chinese Memoir, 186 min.) and Cai you ri ji (Crude Oil, 840 min.).
In Rotterdam you start counting days, hours and minutes, you work out short cuts between the theatres, you want to be here and there and everywhere, you realise how precious the time of life and its screens are. You didn’t want to miss the sensational comeback – as a free man, as a filmmaker – of the former Japanese Red Army- and pro-Palestine terrorist Adachi Masao with his wild, fierce, angry, gross, nasty and sadly enough not entirely fictional, or rather not entirely phantasmagorical behind-the-bars physio-psycho torture-drama Yuheisha/Terorisuto (The Prisoner/Terrorist), which is Adachi’s own story in a way, but actually based on another real hero, Okamoto Kozo, also a member of the Red Army and still living underground in Lebanon; a film, recalling the times when avant-garde and extreme politics could go hand in hand, when trash and splatter met critical notions on a highly repressive system and lead to a kind of insanity, simply unimaginable elsewhere and elsewhen. You also didn’t want to miss the other exceptional and other extreme of Japanese psychoanalysis on film (in a way…), Kobayashi Masahiro, whose latest Locarno-winning film Ai no yukan (The Rebirth), a very special love story in more or less complete silence, therefore in an utterly (nearly hurting) precise body language (plus communication via culinary rituals), starring the master himself in the main role, stood miles out of the rest of his nevertheless quite interesting oeuvre which was shown in one of the Film Maker in Focus portraits.
You wanted to get familiar with some new names in documentary filmmaking like Mahmoud al Massad (Recycle), Anna Hoffmann (Welche Richtung geht’s nach Hause?/Where Is That Home Now?), or Takefuji Kayo (Hanshin hangi/Half Empty or Half Full) – and you didn’t regret either of the choices. Recycle is an investigative and powerful video painting of Abu Amar, an ex-mujahideen, and of Zarqa, the Jordan city where the former Al Qaeda leader Abu Musab al Zarqawi was born and where, until today, many recruits to the jihadist cause come from. If al Massad, born in Jordan in 1969 and an emigrant since 1988 (living in the Netherlands since 1995), went back to a familiar yet politically and socially different hometown to shoot Recycle, Anna Hoffmann, a 28 year-old “German Russian” from Kazakhstan, had left her Central-Asian background at the age of ten (shortly after the break down of the Soviet Empire) in order to study film and theatre in Germany. This wonderful personal documentary road-movie of her “essay” to return back to one’s roots (her roots, her father’s roots, her uncle’s roots), Welche Richtung geht’s nach Hause?, is an astonishing honest examination of family and cultural bonds, intimate and sincere, yet never too private; it offers beautiful, sometimes metaphorical visuals of an estranged but beloved landscape. One striking aspect in Hoffmann’s film, the intensity with which conversations between generations can take place, may also be considered the generic element in Takefuji Kayo’s Half Empty or Half Full, the docu-fictional account of a young female filmmaker meeting an old paralysed man who turns out to be a former filmmaker, too. There is great filmic artistry and mastery in both, the way these two get acquainted with each other as well as in the film-in-film being produced during the shooting of the documentary. All three films are reflections on the connection of memory, oblivion and filmmaking, they convey a sense of loss, emigration, and change.
Paper Cannot Wrap Up EmbersGetting in the mood of watching documentaries – which in Rotterdam is always connected with a certain sportive competition in catalogue-reading (the festival intentionally does not divide the landscapes of film into feature and documentary) – you, of course, wanted to trace the latest turns and developments of experienced and experimental auteurs. Rithy Panh’s Le papier ne peut pas envelopper la braise (Paper Cannot Wrap Up Embers), for instance, the shocking, warm, and deliberately half staged portrait of young prostitutes in Phnom-Penh. Michael Pilz’s A prima vista, a structurally surprisingly “narrative” and autobiographic poem in Super-8, the selective and randomly organised looking back of a man of growing age on his many lives and paths. Garin Nugroho’s Teak Leaves at the Temples, a film that sets out as a simple music documentary of a concert by the free-jazz trio, especially performed for the film, but turns into something completely different – the very special Nugrohian way of intermingling local history and culture of Java, its spiritual rituals and traditional music, ethnographical information, everyday life, etc. with the plot of a film – following up (and maintaining some stylistic features of) the Indonesian master’s grand Opera Jawa (2006). Ken Jacobs’ RAZZLE DAZZLE the Lost World, a prime example of his virtuosity and metamorphotic qualities, or James Benning’s Casting a Glance, another prime example of forming and shaping a certain auteur-cinema, this time the minimalist and steady study of Robert Smithson’s famous landscape artwork Spiral Jetty. Another famous experimentalist’s latest oeuvre, the much discussed Mogari no mori (The Mourning Forest) by Kawase Naomi, testing again the unstable borders between document and fiction, this time by alienating a forest in which two souls get lost. Maria Ramos’ Juizo (Behave), the impressive (and sometimes hardly bearable in terms of absurd punishing methods) follow up of Justice (2004), her prize-winning documentary on the Brazilian judicial system. Or Sergei Loznitsa’s Predstavlenie/The Revue, a sensational footage film based on archive newsreel and propaganda material, dealing with Soviet social and cultural politics of the ‘50s and ‘60s; Loznitsa’s extraordinary handling of the material and its sensual qualities as well as his montage skills make this film a highly informative source for the exploration of the ambiguous nature of official and everyday life in the USSR.
The promotion of Sergei Loznitsa, this major talented Russian filmmaker, might also be regarded as significant for a general tendency of Rotterdam’s programming policies, displaying not only the widely acknowledged and favoured (nearly “expected”) focus on Asian cinema, but also revealing a strong orientation and intense research activity in Russia and the countries of the former Soviet Union. For those with a special interest in Eastern European Cinema, this course could be clearly observed during the last few years already, in 2008, however, it became a real chance and challenge for a broader audience. Besides Loznitsa’s little “Belorussian brother”, Viktor Asliuk, whose humble petit masterpiece Maria reflects the depressive (his- or rather her-)story of a former socialist “best worker”, or the Ukrainian artist’s Ihor Podolchak’s visually intense essay in artistically recreating a claustrophobic family atmosphere Las meninas, one could finally see three mature masterpieces of contemporary Russian cinema side by side, its experienced wing, so to speak, the outstanding triangle Balabanov-Sokurov-Muratova, not the much appraised – sometimes a bit prematurely, as it turns out – young wave (Popogrebsky, Khlebnikov, Zvyagintsev), favoured by those who had been waiting all too long for a simple, free, which ever – light or heavy, but definitely always average European type of arthouse cinema from the generation bearing no longer the stigma of the former USSR.
Cargo 200I think it shows of great insight that the IFFR (besides its unquestioned, daring and encouraging policy to advance talented newcomers mostly before they are acknowledged anywhere else) at the same time persistently, nearly stubbornly continues to focus on directors who, judging from certain representation strategies displayed by official Russian film institutions and politics, are by far not everybody’s darlings any more (if they ever were): at the Kinotavr, the Open Russian Film Festival in Sochi, for instance, three main prizes were given to Alexei Popogrebsky’s Prostye veshchi (Simple Things), whereas Aleksei Balabanov’s outstanding chef-d’oeuvre Gruz 200 (Cargo 200) got none (officials hate the film, it brings disgrace, disgrace, and again, disgrace on Russia). Thanks to this maybe even more daring Rotterdam attitude to not turn its back on formerly big names, these in a sense paradoxical outlaws were given their deserved public appearance and international contextualisation – and we were given the chance to finally see (or see again) Balabanov’s shocking and cynical comment on Russia’s near past Cargo 200, Aleksandr Sokurov’s sublime, enigmatic post-political comment on Russia’s presence Aleksandra, but also the grand old lady Kira Muratova’s latest manifesto in weirdness, Dva v odnom (Two in One), an ever-so-ecstatic diptych of great idiosyncrasy and style, a contemplation on death and love, generations and sexes, relation and confrontation, starring a handful of the country’s most excellent faces, Bogdan Stupka, Renata Litvinova, or Aleksandr Bashirov.
Last but not least, there was the personal retrospective of Svetlana Proskurina’s films, one of two absolute program section highlights of the festival (the other one being the fantastic and long awaited retrospective of the “Chinese 4th generation”, which I am going to turn to in a moment). In contrast to the focus on Kobayashi Masahiro, whose earlier works Closing Time (1996), Bootleg Film (1999), Aruku-hito (Man Walking on Snow, 2001), Kanzen-naru shiiku: Onna rihatsushi no koi (Amazing Story, 2003), Flic (2004) and Bashing (2005), displayed many of the (“Truffautian”) stylistic and idiosyncratic features also dominant in The Rebirth (tameless desire, wintry desolation, silent humans), but doesn’t yet possess the same inner flow, surreal psychological depth, and exorbitant temporal intuition of this new film, the screening of all six of Proskurina’s feature films and one TV-documentary – on her soul-mate Aleksandr Sokurov – unfolded a whole small universe of extraordinarily strong individual films, each dealing with the human psyche, its heavenly heights, its abysmal depths, but more than anything with its nuances so hard to describe and narrate, that the only possible way of rendering them on celluloid is by the mastery of sense and sensibility.
Already her first (short) feature, Roditelskii den (Parents’ Day, 1982), like in all other films of the first working period between the early ‘80s and the early ‘90s starring her then-husband Viktor Proskurin, proves of a tremendously confident cinematographic mise en scène and of an experienced handling of visual and sound techniques; the intensity of the story (a child of an earlier marriage, now a teenager, visits her father and threatens to destroy the fragile family settings) is mediated solely by the language(s) of cinema, the reduced dialogues functioning as just another device of generating atmospheres. Proskurina’s three major films of this first period thus represent a multifaceted elaboration of these genuine skills and intentions: Detskaya ploshchadka (Playground, 1986), a late socialist komunalka-love story between two teenagers who want to simply live their lives of a new generation among the strict behavioural settings and codices of the typical Soviet backyard society; Sluchainyi val’s (Accidental Waltz, 1989), the structurally loosely-knit camera flight right onto the faces and bodies and into the interior and surroundings of the life arrangements of the specific perestroika-generation, precisely displaying this chrono-topos in which a multitude of psychic states and social relations seemed possible (and unavoidable); and Otrazhenie v zerkale (Reflection in the Mirror, 1992), Proskurina’s only attempt in trusting (and exploring) the metaphysical nature of the world, an enigmatic dive into the world of theatre and masks, reflections and mirrors, crisis and depression.
The Best of TimesProskurina’s latest film Luchshee vremya goda (The Best of Times) is a bright version of a similarly dark (or at least intense) story and probably the most explicit in terms of complex construction, drawing the dense picture of a spiritual love story as almost ancient tragedy between a man and two women at the age of 20, 40 and 60. The highest form, however, of this masterly demonstration of the skilful interaction with actors and actresses, but also with the mature and subtle arrangement of psychological atmospheres by a balanced confrontation of sound, colours, set design, camera movements and minimalist narration, remains Svetlana Proskurina’s first (unfortunately ignored) Venice-appearance Udalionnyj dostup (Remote Access, 2004), the clear-cut depiction of a nouveau-russe-family on the edge of existence, tumbling between utter adaptive professionalism, cold hearted intelligence, and eruptive as well as constantly repressed electronically mediated emotions – a film about trauma, gender and generations, a melodrama against its genre-roots and settings, a deconstruction of usual narratives, an exercise in the possibilities and the depths of communication, a masterpiece of virtual encounters in a world which no longer offers (and actually never had offered) any form of home, any kind of identity with oneself or the other(s).
If Proskurina’s psychological films allowed an analytical and also a socially and politically important insight into the decade(s) of Soviet/Russian perestroika, the second special program highlight of this year’s IFFR, Cinema Regained: Rediscovering the 4th Generation, curated by Shelly Kraicer, delivered a widespread and reflexive glance at the cultural landscape(s) of China during and after the so called Cultural Revolution. “The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) extended into and disrupted every social and cultural aspect of Chinese society, including cinema, which was given special scrutiny from the beginning of the People’s Republic, as a medium with the greatest possible propaganda value. These ten years began with a total cessation of film production”, Kraicer explains in his introductory article for the festival catalogue. The Fourth Generation was named retrospectively at the moment when it became necessary to distinguish this therefore randomly connected group of filmmakers from the ones working in the post-Liberation period (1949-1966) and those who regained international fame as the Fifth Generation (Zhang Yimou, Chen Kaige and Tian Zhuangzhuang among others). Generation Four appeared “in silence”, Dai Jinhua remembers in the second longer catalogue text, arguing “it is only in retrospective that they turn out to mark the historic break in recent Chinese history.” In terms of stylistics the twelve films shown in the retrospective thus bear only little resemblance to each other. What the represented directors share, however, is the weird and in most cases tragic fate of studying and intending professional careers (as fellow students of the first generation trained at the Film Academy in Beijing) during a time restricting every step outside the arbitrary, ridiculous framework of the Cultural Revolution. It may be paradoxical, but the films, mainly a Europe- (especially Bazin-) inspired cinema d’auteur produced between 1979 – Xiao hua (Little Flower by Huang Jianzhong and Zhang Zheng), Kunao ren de xiao (Troubled Laughter by Yang Yanjin) – and 1989 (Ben ming nian/Black Snow by Xie Fei), are truly revolutionary themselves in the sense that they reveal the anti-revolutionary character of the ten years of outspoken cultural and human catastrophes.
The methods of this revelation were multiple, the topics of the films manifold. The most pompous one – probably not only in this program section but the whole festival – Xiao hua, for instance, an aesthetic sledge hammer with the air of a soft lotus blossom, a radical fusion of melodrama, romance and war epic, seems more like a straight continuation of the patriotic war genre and ideological dogmas at first glance, and only smoothly, even covertly, turns into a subversive reflection of old ideas and clichés (before it ends in utter heavenly erosion – or maybe self-destroying apotheosis … of Socialist Realism). This too-good-to-be-true story about two girls called Little Flower – in Jia Zhang-ke’s latest film Er shi si cheng ji (24 City), by the way, the film becomes a major point of reference: a fabric worker is called Little Flower, too, because Joan Chen who plays the roll, looks just like the Little Flowers in the famous war-epic from 1979 – their growing up in poverty in the 1930s and their sacrifices as silent war heroines in the ‘40s, is a masterpiece of orchestration and verve, a veritable colour epiphany, aesthetically matched by no other film of the series.
My Memories of Old BeijingThere were other examples of extraordinarily great direction, however, like the two 1983-flag ships Mei you hangbiao de heliu (River Without Buoys) by Wu Tianming and Cheng nan jiu shi (My Memories of Old Beijing) by Wu Yigong. Three men sailing down a raft on the Xiao River during the Cultural Revolution – this simple framing generates Wu Tianming’s sensational narrative in which every going onshore turns into a new breeding ground for the little man’s outrageous fate at this time. Farmers and workers, men and women, every average citizen seems to have become a victim of Mao’s radical ravage. Along with the trip the crew members tell and live their individual stories, unfolding hereby a broad spectrum of classes and the recent history of China. Of similar pureness and simplicity in style, less dramatic, more lyrical, however, is the other historical panorama My Memories of Old Beijing, a masterpiece of Chinese cinema. The emotional but never sentimental attitude of this epic is created by the fact that the threefold chronicle is told through the eyes of a curious and serious little girl, pulling together the strings of a young madwoman’s, a young thief’s, and her own family’s story. Like in River Without Buoys we learn about different social classes and historical constellations by an elegant interweaving of timelines and hardly noticeable (but therefore even more significant) shifting details in narration.
The cinematographic maturity displayed in the two Wus films on spatially (rural) and temporarily distant Chinese livings was contrasted by the sharp irony and direct political critique of the Cultural Revolution’s corrupt and destructive force in Cong Lianwen’s Xiao xiang mingliu (A Narrow Lane Celebrity, 1985), the black-humorous depiction of the years during and after the fatal period in the urban micro-cosmos of a “narrow lane”, and Ben ming nian (Black Snow, 1989), a Berlin Silver Bear, Xie Fei’s realistic hand-camera portrait of a guy returning to Beijing after imprisonment, trying to gain ground as a private market entrepreneur. Naturally he fails to go straight and is drawn back into the world he was determined to leave forever. The film is shocking in the way it delivers a raw insight into the shabby biotopes of a bleak underworld, where no niche is accessible for life without despair. It really stood out in aesthetics, too, foreshadowing not only the many realistic urban documents by the Sixth Generation, but also casting a future glance at what was to become one of the deepest cuts in Chinese history (the suppression of the 1989 Tiananmen Square movement).
A different type of realism, maybe slightly more prone to story telling but nevertheless almost as documentary in style is the wonderful Yeshan (In the Wild Mountains, 1985) by Yan Hueshu. With its long takes, its peaceful framing, its stunning lighting, this husband-swapping drama about two families living their lives within the ancient settings of rural China (the Shaanxi province) – and yet breaking out of the system – became an absolutely striking film experience for many (and one of my personal festival favourites!). Told smoothly, almost as if avoiding to interfere in the harshness of the domestic order and the individual strength of the female characters (the men tend to be losers, generally), Yeshan never fails to keep hold of the small details of real-life-matters, including the physicality of eating, the togetherness of animal and man, or some astonishingly open references to eroticism. To me it seemed even stronger than Teng Wenji’s much appraised Haitan (At the Beach, 1984), the symbolically (over-)loaded other rural family melodrama, set in a fishermen’s village and boosted with really crazy occasional sci-fi tunes – an allusion to Godard, maybe even Tarkovsky, in a small world defended by a Fisherman King and his gang against the new satellite town arising on the horizons.
Strange modernist imagery and experimentalism also seem to be predominant aspects in Yang Yanjin’s works, Kunao ren de xiao (Troubled Laughter) from 1979 on the one hand, and Xiao jie (The Alley, 1981) on the other. Whereas the first, one of the earliest representatives of the Fourth Generation, is the hilarious deconstruction of the perversities and absurdity of the years of the Cultural Revolution, the filmic disruption (slow and stop motion, colour effects, rapid-fire montage) and a confrontation of the naïve and the corrupt, the latter is a playful, yet meditative gender-switching film-in-film-in-film allegory, the un-intentionally therapeutic re-telling of a love during the troublesome years in recent history.
Woman Demon HumanThe same estranging dream-passages, a similar merging of different layers of reality, and modernism at its best can be found in Huang Shuqin’s Ren gui qing (Woman Demon Human, 1987), by far the weirdest and visually most daring of all presented films, and together with the second female director’s chef-d’oeuvre, Zhang Nuanxin’s Qinchun ji (Sacrificed Youth, 1985), the absolute double topping of the amazing heights of Rediscovering the 4th Generation. Based on the life of the female Beijing opera star Pei Yanling the protagonist of the film, famous for portraying male roles on stage (Zhong Kui, for instance, the ghost-catching underworld god), soon identifies with her father and thus seems to start challenging traditional Chinese gender models all life long. It is not only the famed ecstatic scene, when she encounters her alter ego Zhong Kui in a dark abstract room full of mirrors and reflections, but also the elliptic narration, the subtle yet fierce story, and the several cross sections it allows through Chinese history that make Ren gui qing a masterpiece and meta-comment on the actual cultural revolutions taking place during the Cultural Revolution (figuring as a prominent blank here, the most radical rupture in the artist’s biography).
The touching sequence (taking place after 1976) in which the actress lives as a caring working mother, slowly withdrawing from the revolutionary model opera business – a direct allusion to the fact that almost all directors of this period had started out assisting the recording of this standard genre of Cultural Revolution Art – is the strongest connection (in style and in attitude) to the features elaborated and displayed so magically in Zhang’s Sacrificed Youth, one of the greatest films ever (if someone who likes superlatives anyway may say so without getting completely untrustworthy). What becomes visible here is not only the general alternative humanism proposed by the Fourth Generation, but also its thaw-inspired disposition, its passionate but at the same time careful handling of the idea that art should serve workers, peasants and soldiers exclusively, its love for but at the same time cautious retreat and alienation from the Chinese socialist system, its longing yet discreet desire for a another life, its silent and contemplative concern for the many tragic and destructive forces striking this generation of hope – the culturally and politically engaged intelligentsia of China. Qinchun ji is singular in the way it depicts a young woman being “sent-down”, that is, expelled from the city to the countryside in the idyllic Yunnan province, her life with the new and poor Dai minority family, her reluctant but ambitious and humble way of adjusting to the hard labour and the ancient folklore traditions of the community, her reflections upon this arbitrary act of dislocation and the new sensual experiences that came along with it. It is the inevitable (and ideologically probably even intended) reciprocity between rural minority – filmed with an astonishing, for the time shocking naturalism – and the sent-down urban intellectuals, their unavoidable communication and contact which makes the young woman’s experience and with her the whole fourth generation’s fate so special. They sacrificed their youths, their hands were bound when they had reached the height of enthusiasm and lust for life, they suffered from being restricted and thrown back; but somehow, later, being already in their thirties and forties mostly, they were able to discover and lay bare the natural beauty and the inevitable evil, the idealist truths and the constitutive conflicts, the enchanting personal desires and the vicious social constraint in this hilarious, ambivalent, contradictory, estranged world, a world bureaucratically established by a historically singular political intervention, a world they were doomed to live in. They lived in it, they worked in it, they suffered in and with it, they hated it, they loved it.
23 January – 3 February 2008
by Barbara Wurm
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Barbara Wurm is a Berlin- and Vienna-based film historian, critic and programmer (Dok Leipzig). She is currently writing her PhD on Early Soviet Non-Fiction Film and recently co-edited a book on Dziga Vertov.
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If one had the time, if one were able to perceive life and its screens on a multiple level, if one were gifted to grasp the many entirely rounded up festivals within this one festival, the (special, dear, exceptional) International Film Festival Rotterdam (IFFR), one could have started with something extensional and experimental like this: Lav Diaz’s Kagadanan sa banwaan ning mga engkanto (Death in the Land of Encantos), the 540-minute docu-fictional account of a region on the Philippine islands struck by the incredibly strong hurricane Durian in December 2006, a story, loosely knit around the existentially and politically active poet Benjamin Agustan who returns to his devastated native soil after a long stay in Russia, written and directed by Lav Diaz, this wonderful charming contemplative lonely hero who again and again seems to return to his morally and economically shattered home country as if after several longer stop-overs on a completely different (cinematographic) planet. Or with this: Standing Up, Waise Azimi’s second trip (and voluntary embedment) into the heart of darkness of Afghanistan (still and involuntarily at war), a 120-minute (also) Philippine documentary shot in Camp Alamo, the training camp of the allied forces, a serious, harsh, yet unemphatic attempt in realising who they are, these men shaping this War Against Terror on both sides (soldiers here, refugees and unemployed recruits there), a sociologically clear cut picture of a life we usually have no access to, deliberately interrupted by very personal reflections. Or with this: one part of the “Exploding Cinema” section (the framework for the transgression of cinema and its black-box and one-screen-limits as a framework), an intersection of film and art, a series of videos and installations called New Dragon Inns, including works by the Thai master-dragon Apichatpong Weerasethakul (plus some more or less newly introduced names like Uruphong Raksasad, Jakrawal Nilthamrong, Nitipong Thintuphthai, Thunska Pansittivorakul and Thaweesak Srithongdee), some smaller Chinese-Taiwanese border- and gender-crossings as well as a large number of longer videos by Thai, Taiwanese and mainly Chinese artists – the most outstanding of which being Yang Fudong’s Seven Intellectuals in Bamboo Forest Part 1-5 (229 min.) and Wang Bing’s two hallmarks in political filmmaking of respectable length, He Fengming (Fengming, a Chinese Memoir, 186 min.) and Cai you ri ji (Crude Oil, 840 min.).
In Rotterdam you start counting days, hours and minutes, you work out short cuts between the theatres, you want to be here and there and everywhere, you realise how precious the time of life and its screens are. You didn’t want to miss the sensational comeback – as a free man, as a filmmaker – of the former Japanese Red Army- and pro-Palestine terrorist Adachi Masao with his wild, fierce, angry, gross, nasty and sadly enough not entirely fictional, or rather not entirely phantasmagorical behind-the-bars physio-psycho torture-drama Yuheisha/Terorisuto (The Prisoner/Terrorist), which is Adachi’s own story in a way, but actually based on another real hero, Okamoto Kozo, also a member of the Red Army and still living underground in Lebanon; a film, recalling the times when avant-garde and extreme politics could go hand in hand, when trash and splatter met critical notions on a highly repressive system and lead to a kind of insanity, simply unimaginable elsewhere and elsewhen. You also didn’t want to miss the other exceptional and other extreme of Japanese psychoanalysis on film (in a way…), Kobayashi Masahiro, whose latest Locarno-winning film Ai no yukan (The Rebirth), a very special love story in more or less complete silence, therefore in an utterly (nearly hurting) precise body language (plus communication via culinary rituals), starring the master himself in the main role, stood miles out of the rest of his nevertheless quite interesting oeuvre which was shown in one of the Film Maker in Focus portraits.
You wanted to get familiar with some new names in documentary filmmaking like Mahmoud al Massad (Recycle), Anna Hoffmann (Welche Richtung geht’s nach Hause?/Where Is That Home Now?), or Takefuji Kayo (Hanshin hangi/Half Empty or Half Full) – and you didn’t regret either of the choices. Recycle is an investigative and powerful video painting of Abu Amar, an ex-mujahideen, and of Zarqa, the Jordan city where the former Al Qaeda leader Abu Musab al Zarqawi was born and where, until today, many recruits to the jihadist cause come from. If al Massad, born in Jordan in 1969 and an emigrant since 1988 (living in the Netherlands since 1995), went back to a familiar yet politically and socially different hometown to shoot Recycle, Anna Hoffmann, a 28 year-old “German Russian” from Kazakhstan, had left her Central-Asian background at the age of ten (shortly after the break down of the Soviet Empire) in order to study film and theatre in Germany. This wonderful personal documentary road-movie of her “essay” to return back to one’s roots (her roots, her father’s roots, her uncle’s roots), Welche Richtung geht’s nach Hause?, is an astonishing honest examination of family and cultural bonds, intimate and sincere, yet never too private; it offers beautiful, sometimes metaphorical visuals of an estranged but beloved landscape. One striking aspect in Hoffmann’s film, the intensity with which conversations between generations can take place, may also be considered the generic element in Takefuji Kayo’s Half Empty or Half Full, the docu-fictional account of a young female filmmaker meeting an old paralysed man who turns out to be a former filmmaker, too. There is great filmic artistry and mastery in both, the way these two get acquainted with each other as well as in the film-in-film being produced during the shooting of the documentary. All three films are reflections on the connection of memory, oblivion and filmmaking, they convey a sense of loss, emigration, and change.
Paper Cannot Wrap Up EmbersGetting in the mood of watching documentaries – which in Rotterdam is always connected with a certain sportive competition in catalogue-reading (the festival intentionally does not divide the landscapes of film into feature and documentary) – you, of course, wanted to trace the latest turns and developments of experienced and experimental auteurs. Rithy Panh’s Le papier ne peut pas envelopper la braise (Paper Cannot Wrap Up Embers), for instance, the shocking, warm, and deliberately half staged portrait of young prostitutes in Phnom-Penh. Michael Pilz’s A prima vista, a structurally surprisingly “narrative” and autobiographic poem in Super-8, the selective and randomly organised looking back of a man of growing age on his many lives and paths. Garin Nugroho’s Teak Leaves at the Temples, a film that sets out as a simple music documentary of a concert by the free-jazz trio, especially performed for the film, but turns into something completely different – the very special Nugrohian way of intermingling local history and culture of Java, its spiritual rituals and traditional music, ethnographical information, everyday life, etc. with the plot of a film – following up (and maintaining some stylistic features of) the Indonesian master’s grand Opera Jawa (2006). Ken Jacobs’ RAZZLE DAZZLE the Lost World, a prime example of his virtuosity and metamorphotic qualities, or James Benning’s Casting a Glance, another prime example of forming and shaping a certain auteur-cinema, this time the minimalist and steady study of Robert Smithson’s famous landscape artwork Spiral Jetty. Another famous experimentalist’s latest oeuvre, the much discussed Mogari no mori (The Mourning Forest) by Kawase Naomi, testing again the unstable borders between document and fiction, this time by alienating a forest in which two souls get lost. Maria Ramos’ Juizo (Behave), the impressive (and sometimes hardly bearable in terms of absurd punishing methods) follow up of Justice (2004), her prize-winning documentary on the Brazilian judicial system. Or Sergei Loznitsa’s Predstavlenie/The Revue, a sensational footage film based on archive newsreel and propaganda material, dealing with Soviet social and cultural politics of the ‘50s and ‘60s; Loznitsa’s extraordinary handling of the material and its sensual qualities as well as his montage skills make this film a highly informative source for the exploration of the ambiguous nature of official and everyday life in the USSR.
The promotion of Sergei Loznitsa, this major talented Russian filmmaker, might also be regarded as significant for a general tendency of Rotterdam’s programming policies, displaying not only the widely acknowledged and favoured (nearly “expected”) focus on Asian cinema, but also revealing a strong orientation and intense research activity in Russia and the countries of the former Soviet Union. For those with a special interest in Eastern European Cinema, this course could be clearly observed during the last few years already, in 2008, however, it became a real chance and challenge for a broader audience. Besides Loznitsa’s little “Belorussian brother”, Viktor Asliuk, whose humble petit masterpiece Maria reflects the depressive (his- or rather her-)story of a former socialist “best worker”, or the Ukrainian artist’s Ihor Podolchak’s visually intense essay in artistically recreating a claustrophobic family atmosphere Las meninas, one could finally see three mature masterpieces of contemporary Russian cinema side by side, its experienced wing, so to speak, the outstanding triangle Balabanov-Sokurov-Muratova, not the much appraised – sometimes a bit prematurely, as it turns out – young wave (Popogrebsky, Khlebnikov, Zvyagintsev), favoured by those who had been waiting all too long for a simple, free, which ever – light or heavy, but definitely always average European type of arthouse cinema from the generation bearing no longer the stigma of the former USSR.
Cargo 200I think it shows of great insight that the IFFR (besides its unquestioned, daring and encouraging policy to advance talented newcomers mostly before they are acknowledged anywhere else) at the same time persistently, nearly stubbornly continues to focus on directors who, judging from certain representation strategies displayed by official Russian film institutions and politics, are by far not everybody’s darlings any more (if they ever were): at the Kinotavr, the Open Russian Film Festival in Sochi, for instance, three main prizes were given to Alexei Popogrebsky’s Prostye veshchi (Simple Things), whereas Aleksei Balabanov’s outstanding chef-d’oeuvre Gruz 200 (Cargo 200) got none (officials hate the film, it brings disgrace, disgrace, and again, disgrace on Russia). Thanks to this maybe even more daring Rotterdam attitude to not turn its back on formerly big names, these in a sense paradoxical outlaws were given their deserved public appearance and international contextualisation – and we were given the chance to finally see (or see again) Balabanov’s shocking and cynical comment on Russia’s near past Cargo 200, Aleksandr Sokurov’s sublime, enigmatic post-political comment on Russia’s presence Aleksandra, but also the grand old lady Kira Muratova’s latest manifesto in weirdness, Dva v odnom (Two in One), an ever-so-ecstatic diptych of great idiosyncrasy and style, a contemplation on death and love, generations and sexes, relation and confrontation, starring a handful of the country’s most excellent faces, Bogdan Stupka, Renata Litvinova, or Aleksandr Bashirov.
Last but not least, there was the personal retrospective of Svetlana Proskurina’s films, one of two absolute program section highlights of the festival (the other one being the fantastic and long awaited retrospective of the “Chinese 4th generation”, which I am going to turn to in a moment). In contrast to the focus on Kobayashi Masahiro, whose earlier works Closing Time (1996), Bootleg Film (1999), Aruku-hito (Man Walking on Snow, 2001), Kanzen-naru shiiku: Onna rihatsushi no koi (Amazing Story, 2003), Flic (2004) and Bashing (2005), displayed many of the (“Truffautian”) stylistic and idiosyncratic features also dominant in The Rebirth (tameless desire, wintry desolation, silent humans), but doesn’t yet possess the same inner flow, surreal psychological depth, and exorbitant temporal intuition of this new film, the screening of all six of Proskurina’s feature films and one TV-documentary – on her soul-mate Aleksandr Sokurov – unfolded a whole small universe of extraordinarily strong individual films, each dealing with the human psyche, its heavenly heights, its abysmal depths, but more than anything with its nuances so hard to describe and narrate, that the only possible way of rendering them on celluloid is by the mastery of sense and sensibility.
Already her first (short) feature, Roditelskii den (Parents’ Day, 1982), like in all other films of the first working period between the early ‘80s and the early ‘90s starring her then-husband Viktor Proskurin, proves of a tremendously confident cinematographic mise en scène and of an experienced handling of visual and sound techniques; the intensity of the story (a child of an earlier marriage, now a teenager, visits her father and threatens to destroy the fragile family settings) is mediated solely by the language(s) of cinema, the reduced dialogues functioning as just another device of generating atmospheres. Proskurina’s three major films of this first period thus represent a multifaceted elaboration of these genuine skills and intentions: Detskaya ploshchadka (Playground, 1986), a late socialist komunalka-love story between two teenagers who want to simply live their lives of a new generation among the strict behavioural settings and codices of the typical Soviet backyard society; Sluchainyi val’s (Accidental Waltz, 1989), the structurally loosely-knit camera flight right onto the faces and bodies and into the interior and surroundings of the life arrangements of the specific perestroika-generation, precisely displaying this chrono-topos in which a multitude of psychic states and social relations seemed possible (and unavoidable); and Otrazhenie v zerkale (Reflection in the Mirror, 1992), Proskurina’s only attempt in trusting (and exploring) the metaphysical nature of the world, an enigmatic dive into the world of theatre and masks, reflections and mirrors, crisis and depression.
The Best of TimesProskurina’s latest film Luchshee vremya goda (The Best of Times) is a bright version of a similarly dark (or at least intense) story and probably the most explicit in terms of complex construction, drawing the dense picture of a spiritual love story as almost ancient tragedy between a man and two women at the age of 20, 40 and 60. The highest form, however, of this masterly demonstration of the skilful interaction with actors and actresses, but also with the mature and subtle arrangement of psychological atmospheres by a balanced confrontation of sound, colours, set design, camera movements and minimalist narration, remains Svetlana Proskurina’s first (unfortunately ignored) Venice-appearance Udalionnyj dostup (Remote Access, 2004), the clear-cut depiction of a nouveau-russe-family on the edge of existence, tumbling between utter adaptive professionalism, cold hearted intelligence, and eruptive as well as constantly repressed electronically mediated emotions – a film about trauma, gender and generations, a melodrama against its genre-roots and settings, a deconstruction of usual narratives, an exercise in the possibilities and the depths of communication, a masterpiece of virtual encounters in a world which no longer offers (and actually never had offered) any form of home, any kind of identity with oneself or the other(s).
If Proskurina’s psychological films allowed an analytical and also a socially and politically important insight into the decade(s) of Soviet/Russian perestroika, the second special program highlight of this year’s IFFR, Cinema Regained: Rediscovering the 4th Generation, curated by Shelly Kraicer, delivered a widespread and reflexive glance at the cultural landscape(s) of China during and after the so called Cultural Revolution. “The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution (1966-1976) extended into and disrupted every social and cultural aspect of Chinese society, including cinema, which was given special scrutiny from the beginning of the People’s Republic, as a medium with the greatest possible propaganda value. These ten years began with a total cessation of film production”, Kraicer explains in his introductory article for the festival catalogue. The Fourth Generation was named retrospectively at the moment when it became necessary to distinguish this therefore randomly connected group of filmmakers from the ones working in the post-Liberation period (1949-1966) and those who regained international fame as the Fifth Generation (Zhang Yimou, Chen Kaige and Tian Zhuangzhuang among others). Generation Four appeared “in silence”, Dai Jinhua remembers in the second longer catalogue text, arguing “it is only in retrospective that they turn out to mark the historic break in recent Chinese history.” In terms of stylistics the twelve films shown in the retrospective thus bear only little resemblance to each other. What the represented directors share, however, is the weird and in most cases tragic fate of studying and intending professional careers (as fellow students of the first generation trained at the Film Academy in Beijing) during a time restricting every step outside the arbitrary, ridiculous framework of the Cultural Revolution. It may be paradoxical, but the films, mainly a Europe- (especially Bazin-) inspired cinema d’auteur produced between 1979 – Xiao hua (Little Flower by Huang Jianzhong and Zhang Zheng), Kunao ren de xiao (Troubled Laughter by Yang Yanjin) – and 1989 (Ben ming nian/Black Snow by Xie Fei), are truly revolutionary themselves in the sense that they reveal the anti-revolutionary character of the ten years of outspoken cultural and human catastrophes.
The methods of this revelation were multiple, the topics of the films manifold. The most pompous one – probably not only in this program section but the whole festival – Xiao hua, for instance, an aesthetic sledge hammer with the air of a soft lotus blossom, a radical fusion of melodrama, romance and war epic, seems more like a straight continuation of the patriotic war genre and ideological dogmas at first glance, and only smoothly, even covertly, turns into a subversive reflection of old ideas and clichés (before it ends in utter heavenly erosion – or maybe self-destroying apotheosis … of Socialist Realism). This too-good-to-be-true story about two girls called Little Flower – in Jia Zhang-ke’s latest film Er shi si cheng ji (24 City), by the way, the film becomes a major point of reference: a fabric worker is called Little Flower, too, because Joan Chen who plays the roll, looks just like the Little Flowers in the famous war-epic from 1979 – their growing up in poverty in the 1930s and their sacrifices as silent war heroines in the ‘40s, is a masterpiece of orchestration and verve, a veritable colour epiphany, aesthetically matched by no other film of the series.
My Memories of Old BeijingThere were other examples of extraordinarily great direction, however, like the two 1983-flag ships Mei you hangbiao de heliu (River Without Buoys) by Wu Tianming and Cheng nan jiu shi (My Memories of Old Beijing) by Wu Yigong. Three men sailing down a raft on the Xiao River during the Cultural Revolution – this simple framing generates Wu Tianming’s sensational narrative in which every going onshore turns into a new breeding ground for the little man’s outrageous fate at this time. Farmers and workers, men and women, every average citizen seems to have become a victim of Mao’s radical ravage. Along with the trip the crew members tell and live their individual stories, unfolding hereby a broad spectrum of classes and the recent history of China. Of similar pureness and simplicity in style, less dramatic, more lyrical, however, is the other historical panorama My Memories of Old Beijing, a masterpiece of Chinese cinema. The emotional but never sentimental attitude of this epic is created by the fact that the threefold chronicle is told through the eyes of a curious and serious little girl, pulling together the strings of a young madwoman’s, a young thief’s, and her own family’s story. Like in River Without Buoys we learn about different social classes and historical constellations by an elegant interweaving of timelines and hardly noticeable (but therefore even more significant) shifting details in narration.
The cinematographic maturity displayed in the two Wus films on spatially (rural) and temporarily distant Chinese livings was contrasted by the sharp irony and direct political critique of the Cultural Revolution’s corrupt and destructive force in Cong Lianwen’s Xiao xiang mingliu (A Narrow Lane Celebrity, 1985), the black-humorous depiction of the years during and after the fatal period in the urban micro-cosmos of a “narrow lane”, and Ben ming nian (Black Snow, 1989), a Berlin Silver Bear, Xie Fei’s realistic hand-camera portrait of a guy returning to Beijing after imprisonment, trying to gain ground as a private market entrepreneur. Naturally he fails to go straight and is drawn back into the world he was determined to leave forever. The film is shocking in the way it delivers a raw insight into the shabby biotopes of a bleak underworld, where no niche is accessible for life without despair. It really stood out in aesthetics, too, foreshadowing not only the many realistic urban documents by the Sixth Generation, but also casting a future glance at what was to become one of the deepest cuts in Chinese history (the suppression of the 1989 Tiananmen Square movement).
A different type of realism, maybe slightly more prone to story telling but nevertheless almost as documentary in style is the wonderful Yeshan (In the Wild Mountains, 1985) by Yan Hueshu. With its long takes, its peaceful framing, its stunning lighting, this husband-swapping drama about two families living their lives within the ancient settings of rural China (the Shaanxi province) – and yet breaking out of the system – became an absolutely striking film experience for many (and one of my personal festival favourites!). Told smoothly, almost as if avoiding to interfere in the harshness of the domestic order and the individual strength of the female characters (the men tend to be losers, generally), Yeshan never fails to keep hold of the small details of real-life-matters, including the physicality of eating, the togetherness of animal and man, or some astonishingly open references to eroticism. To me it seemed even stronger than Teng Wenji’s much appraised Haitan (At the Beach, 1984), the symbolically (over-)loaded other rural family melodrama, set in a fishermen’s village and boosted with really crazy occasional sci-fi tunes – an allusion to Godard, maybe even Tarkovsky, in a small world defended by a Fisherman King and his gang against the new satellite town arising on the horizons.
Strange modernist imagery and experimentalism also seem to be predominant aspects in Yang Yanjin’s works, Kunao ren de xiao (Troubled Laughter) from 1979 on the one hand, and Xiao jie (The Alley, 1981) on the other. Whereas the first, one of the earliest representatives of the Fourth Generation, is the hilarious deconstruction of the perversities and absurdity of the years of the Cultural Revolution, the filmic disruption (slow and stop motion, colour effects, rapid-fire montage) and a confrontation of the naïve and the corrupt, the latter is a playful, yet meditative gender-switching film-in-film-in-film allegory, the un-intentionally therapeutic re-telling of a love during the troublesome years in recent history.
Woman Demon HumanThe same estranging dream-passages, a similar merging of different layers of reality, and modernism at its best can be found in Huang Shuqin’s Ren gui qing (Woman Demon Human, 1987), by far the weirdest and visually most daring of all presented films, and together with the second female director’s chef-d’oeuvre, Zhang Nuanxin’s Qinchun ji (Sacrificed Youth, 1985), the absolute double topping of the amazing heights of Rediscovering the 4th Generation. Based on the life of the female Beijing opera star Pei Yanling the protagonist of the film, famous for portraying male roles on stage (Zhong Kui, for instance, the ghost-catching underworld god), soon identifies with her father and thus seems to start challenging traditional Chinese gender models all life long. It is not only the famed ecstatic scene, when she encounters her alter ego Zhong Kui in a dark abstract room full of mirrors and reflections, but also the elliptic narration, the subtle yet fierce story, and the several cross sections it allows through Chinese history that make Ren gui qing a masterpiece and meta-comment on the actual cultural revolutions taking place during the Cultural Revolution (figuring as a prominent blank here, the most radical rupture in the artist’s biography).
The touching sequence (taking place after 1976) in which the actress lives as a caring working mother, slowly withdrawing from the revolutionary model opera business – a direct allusion to the fact that almost all directors of this period had started out assisting the recording of this standard genre of Cultural Revolution Art – is the strongest connection (in style and in attitude) to the features elaborated and displayed so magically in Zhang’s Sacrificed Youth, one of the greatest films ever (if someone who likes superlatives anyway may say so without getting completely untrustworthy). What becomes visible here is not only the general alternative humanism proposed by the Fourth Generation, but also its thaw-inspired disposition, its passionate but at the same time careful handling of the idea that art should serve workers, peasants and soldiers exclusively, its love for but at the same time cautious retreat and alienation from the Chinese socialist system, its longing yet discreet desire for a another life, its silent and contemplative concern for the many tragic and destructive forces striking this generation of hope – the culturally and politically engaged intelligentsia of China. Qinchun ji is singular in the way it depicts a young woman being “sent-down”, that is, expelled from the city to the countryside in the idyllic Yunnan province, her life with the new and poor Dai minority family, her reluctant but ambitious and humble way of adjusting to the hard labour and the ancient folklore traditions of the community, her reflections upon this arbitrary act of dislocation and the new sensual experiences that came along with it. It is the inevitable (and ideologically probably even intended) reciprocity between rural minority – filmed with an astonishing, for the time shocking naturalism – and the sent-down urban intellectuals, their unavoidable communication and contact which makes the young woman’s experience and with her the whole fourth generation’s fate so special. They sacrificed their youths, their hands were bound when they had reached the height of enthusiasm and lust for life, they suffered from being restricted and thrown back; but somehow, later, being already in their thirties and forties mostly, they were able to discover and lay bare the natural beauty and the inevitable evil, the idealist truths and the constitutive conflicts, the enchanting personal desires and the vicious social constraint in this hilarious, ambivalent, contradictory, estranged world, a world bureaucratically established by a historically singular political intervention, a world they were doomed to live in. They lived in it, they worked in it, they suffered in and with it, they hated it, they loved it.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
XXIII. Indie Cinema bilang Kultural na Kapital
ni Roland Tolentino
Kung bilang ang pagbabatayan, indie films na ang namamayagpag sa Pilipinas. Sila na ang bumubuo ng bulto ng output taon-taon, nananalo ng awards sa loob at labas ng bansa. Sila ang tinaguriang “shot in the arm” ng naghihingalong industriya ng pelikula.
Kung pagbabatayan ang ikaapat na Cinemalaya ng Hulyo 2008, ang 27,000 nanood sa higit sa 200 indie films ay nagbabadya na mayroon nang deboto, kundi man komunidad, ang indie films. Ito ang tunay na box-office draw sa elitistang persepsyon at katangian ng Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP).
Ito lamang, maliban sa lingguhang pagtitipon ng El Shaddai, ang nakakapuno sa mga venue sa CCP. Indie films ang lumalabas na tunay na ideal market ng CCP—kabataan, culturati na may interes sa pag-unlad ng lokal na sining, willing tumangkilik, at higit sa lahat, magbayad. Ano pa ang hahanapin ng CCP?
Ang indie films ay nakalikha ng sarili nitong niche community. Niche pa lang ito dahil Metro Manila phenomenon, sa pangkalahatan, ang indie films. Bagamat mayroong pelikula mula sa rehiyon, mas ang itinatampok pa sa kompetisyon sa Cinemalaya ay ang sentrong nag-aaproba ng proyekto ng rehiyon o mga pelikulang may rehiyonal na flavor na pinondohan at nakakapasa sa panlasa ng sentro.
At dahil ang base ng komunidad—ang tumatangkilik—ay mga kabataang culturati na nakakapagbayad (kung gayon, gitnang uri na tulad din ng kasalukuyang audience ng lokal na sineng ang bayad ay P80 hanggang P140 kada tiket), hindi lamang sentrong phenomenon ang indie films, ito ay gitnang uring culturati na kaganapan.
Kumbaga sa pagsusuring pang-uri, ito ang pambansang burgesyang may interes sa pag-unlad ng lokal na industriya ng sining, kahit pa nga ito pinopondohan ng media na interes ni Tonyboy Conjuangco, ang patron ng Cinemalaya.
At kung ito ang katumbas ng pambansang burgesya, maliit ang bilang ng tumantangkilik ng indie films. Matapos ng apat na taon ng Cinemalaya, mabibilang ang indie films na nakapasok sa komersyal na venue, ang cinema complex sa malls. Tanging CCP, isang sinehan sa Robinson’s Galleria, at Cine Adarna ng University of the Philippines Film Institute ang may regular na programa ng screening ng indie films.
Ang empasis ng Cinemalaya sa naratibong pelikula ang nagpaunlad ng kasalukuyang “mainstream look” ng indie films. Kalakhan ng sampung pelikula sa kompetisyon ay mayroong diin sa narrative continuity at suture, tulad ng classical Hollywood narrative cinema.
Ang Boses (Ellen Ongkeko Marfil, direktor) ay epektibong nagpaagos ng luha sa manonood, kasama ako. Sino ang hindi maiiyak sa isang inabusong musmos na nakatuklas ng kapangyarihan ng musika ng biolin para makaagapay sa kanyang abang lagay? Na mula sa pagiging walang magawang biktima ng karahasan ng kanyang ama, siya naman ay naging willing na disipulo ng isang demanding na henyo, ngunit may mababang EQ (emotional quotient)?
Nawala na ang jittery movement na gamit ay mumurahing portable video camera. Napalitan na ng stilisadong off framing, panning at tilting movement para mag-simulate ng sinaunang dokumentaryo at new wave look. Sinadya na ang indie look, hindi nanggaling dahil sa indie mode of production.
Ang kinalabasan ay well-polished indie films, o indie films na may mainstream look. Ang tangi na lamang inaabanteng “indie spirit” ay ang paksa—batang inabuso at nakatuklas sa biolin, call center agents na inaanod (o nilulunod?) ng bagong buhay ng sunshine industry, sensualidad ng Ilonggo cuisine, at iba pa.
Wala na ang lingering camera movements ng poverty films at surrealist look na ang artist at manunulat ang pangunahing tauhan. Na-Hollywood-ized na ang indie films, o nagmistulang indie films sa U.S. na nag-aantay ma-pickup ng major studio. Na kaya na lamang indie films ang mga ito ay dahil hindi pa nga naipapalabas—bagamat kahit ngayon pa lang ay nangangarap na—sa komersyal na sinehan.
Sa awardings, nandoon si Mother Lily, ang anti-thesis ng indie films. Hindi nga ba’t si Raya Martin ay gumawa ng pelikulang misogynista at racista ukol sa pagkatupok sa “Mother Lily” character? Ano ang nangyari sa fantasy-ideal ng indie filmmakers na matupok ang Mother Lily-mainstream figure kung ang tunay na Mother Lily ay kabilang sa guest of honor ng pinakatampok na indie film festival sa bansa?
Ang mainstreaming ng indie cinema ay naghuhudyat ng reconciliatory position ng gatekeepers ng indie films—na may content na at kailangan na ng market. Sila na resulta ng pang-aapi ng mainstream cinema ay ngayon nag-aalok ng olive branch. Nakaka-touch, di ba? Pero dahil na rin hindi na nakakasapat ang CCP, Robinson’s at UP bilang venue. Kailangan nang makapasok ang indie films sa sinehan.
Kung gayon, ang kasalukuyang orkestrasyon ng indie films ay tungo sa mainstreaming nito. Naka-check na ang international awards. Muli nang nakapasok sa Cannes Film Festival Competition. Kailangan na lamang may manalo sa isa sa apat na first-tier festivals.
Naka-check na rin ang kabataang culturati—silang mga filmmakers ay ngayon ay audience. Kailangan na ng mas malakihang expansyon ng venue at market ng indie films. At hindi komunidad ng maralitang tagalunsod o unyon ang inaakalang venue nito. Ang oasis ng cinema complex sa tuktok na palapag ng malls.
May retransformasyon ng kultural na kapital ang kaakibat ng mainstreaming ng indie films. Ang dating indie filmmaker ay ngayon ay inaasahang maging astute marketers na rin ng kanyang pelikula. Kahit pa ang payo ng international programmers ay lumikha ng mga pelikulang orihinal, kakaiba at nanggagaling sa lokal na lipunan.
Sa 27,000 na nanood ng ikaapat na Cinemalaya, hindi iilan ang nangangarap maging filmmaker. Na hindi tulad ng writer na maaring gumawa ng akdang ibuburo niya sa pahina ng itinatagong journal, ang indie filmmaker, tulad ng blogger sa internet, ay may ini-imagine na publiko.
Siya na manonood ay umaasang maging manlilikha ng produktong mapapanood. Mayroong kultural na kapital ang indie filmmaker. Nakakapanghatak ito sa fantasisasyon ng nasa ibaba—ang kabataang culturati na makita ang sarili nilang ideal, at mahigitan ito sa matagalan.
Kahit pa ang indie filmmaker ay naglalayon maging mainstream. Na kung magpakaganito, siya na nag-iisip sa kanyang fantasya na nagsusunog kay Mother Lily ay siya palang nag-aalay ng bulaklak sa paanan nito, at nagpapakintab sa rebulto nito.
Kung magpakaganito, natupok na rin ang indie bilang kultural na kapital. Natransforma na ang kultural na kapital—anti-establisyimentong gamit sa pelikula, kontraryong bisyon sa sining, at pagtatanghal sa direktor bilang artist—at naging social capital na lamang ito.
Nakakaakyat na sa baitang ng mainstream at industriyang pampelikula ang indie filmmaker. Ang nagpakilos na rito ay hindi na dahil siya ay (ex-) indie filmmaker kundi kung sino na ang kanyang nakilala mula sa itaas na kaya ring maghaltak sa kanya sa higit pang panlipunan at pang-uring mobilidad.
Sa aking palagay, matapos ng ikaapat na taon, may krisis na ang indie films. Ang krisis ay sa pagbibigay-diin sa market—hindi pa audience na hindi naman nesesaryong nakakapagbayad—ng indie films. Ano ba yan?! Hindi ba nga nakakapaglakad ay nalulumpo na ang indie cinema.
Ang ginagawang pantawid para sa nilikhang kakulangan ng indie films ay ang pag-market ng pelikula. Kung ganito, pumaloob na ang indie films sa diskurso ng komersyalismo at industriya. Hindi iilang beses kong narinig sa mga nagsalita at filmmakers na “suportahan ninyo (manonood) ang indie films” na ibig sabihin ay bumili ng tiket at manood nito.
Imbis na isipin ang problema ay audience development, ang itinatampok na diskurso ay pag-penetrate sa palengke (market). Nagpapababa ito sa nakamit na kultural na kapital ng indie filmmakers—bilang propeta ng transformatibong sining. Kaya hindi rin kataka-taka na ang kalahating milyong grant mula sa Cinemalaya ay iniisip na kulang pa para makamit ang bisyon.
Nakadikit na rin ang estado sa Cinemalaya. Nandito ang karagdagang pondo at kredit sa Film Development Council of the Philippines (FDCP) at National Commission for Culture and the Arts. Na ang bisyon ng filmmaker ay dumadaan na rin sa kapital, kundi man sa lente na rin, ng estado.
Kaya rin hindi ako nagtataka kung bakit wala na ang legacy ng social realism ni Lino Brocka at modernistang critique ng gitnang uri ni Ishmael Bernal. Nawala na ang politikal na filmmaking sa bokabularyo ng indie filmmakers. Ang piniling idioma ay halaw sa language ng mainsteam filmmaking.
Tanging ang indie filmmakers na piniling manatili sa laylayan ng laylayan (ang naunang posisyon ng Cinemalaya) ang may nalalabing bisang gamit ng kultural na kapital. Na tila nagsasaad ng sumpa: na kapag piniling maging (tunay na) indie filmmaker, kailangang magpakatotoo sa sarili, na ang sarili ay konektado, sa batayang antas, sa sining, at ang sining ay halaw sa lipunan.
Walang short cut dahil kina-cut short ng mainstreaming ng indie films ang pagpapanatili sa indipendiente at transformatibong sining. Kaya rin hindi kakatwa na CCP ang venue at host ng Cinemalaya dahil tunay na tagapagpadaloy ang institusyong kultural ng estado sa nesesaryong kondisyon ng pangangapital ng estado.
Parang harsh, di ba? Pero alin ang mas harsh: ang kooptasyon ng CCP sa indie films sa direksyong tinungo nito sa paanan ng kapital—may audience pero bawas na ang integridad; may puri pero dulot na ng pagka-pickup nito ng international film festival programmer (kahit pa kinuwestiyun din itong purposiveness ng indie films sa pagiging circuitable sa foreign art market)–o ang kawalan ng market pero may mas angkop sa mas maliitang niche audience na sabayang tumatangkilik at trinatrasforma ng sining?
Dalawang magkausap na representatibo ang boundary markers nitong huli. Sa isang banda, ang figura ni Lav Diaz na nagbukas at nagpanatiling bukas ng panibagong landas para sa indie filmmakers—ang pagtuon ng susing diin sa sining at politika ng pagsasaad nito para sa politikal na transformasyon, hindi man ng politika, kundi ng sining ng politika.
Sa kabilang banda, ang dokumentaryong politikal na film collectives na lumilikha ng indie films (hindi naratibo, hindi feature-length) para sa partikular na sektor ng kilusang masa. Politikal ang panuntunan ng sining at ang sining ay gamit sa politikal na transformasyon.
Ang ipinagkaiba ng nakapaloob sa dalawang markerｓ na ito sa Cinemalaya ay ang politikal na intent sa indie filmmaking. Pinananatili ang politika ng sining at ang gamit ng sining sa politikal na transformasyon sa panuntunan ng mga figura ni Diaz at political film collectives. Nilulusaw na ito sa Cinemalaya.
Kapag mainstream, wala nang gamit ang kultural na kapital. Mismong kapital na ang impetu ng sirkulasyon ng pelikula, filmmaker at indie cinema. Kung gayon, pangangapital na turing ang mainstreaming ng indie filmmaking.
Kaya sa huli, ang tunay na indie filmmaking ay wala na sa kamay ng estado, kahit may aspekto pa rin ng paggamit dito (FDCP, halimbawa, sa pagbibigay ng pondo sa mga natanggap na pelikula sa dayuhang festivals, at siempre, ang pag-claim nito sa produkto bilang kanya na rin). Ang vanguards nito ay ay pagtungo sa pinakamalayong sulok ng estado, kung saan ito mahina at walang lubos na galamay sa pagpapatagos ng pangangapital nito. Kung saan ang tao ay pinakadahop ang kondisyong panlipunan, at kung gayon, pinakahinog para sa pagbabalikwas.
Ang tunay na indie cinema ay ang pagpanig sa tao at bayang mas nakapanig sa interes ng indie filmmakers, at kasangga sa paglaban sa estadong puno’t dulo ng malawakan at malalimang kaapihan nilang lahat. Ang tunay na indie films ay ang lumalaban sa interes ng estado, at nakakiling sa interes ng mamamayan.
Kaninong kwento ang ikinuwento at ikukwento mo? Alin rin kwento ang papaniwalaan at papanigan ng mamamayan?
from Bulatlat
Volume VIII, Number 26, August 3-9, 2008
Kung bilang ang pagbabatayan, indie films na ang namamayagpag sa Pilipinas. Sila na ang bumubuo ng bulto ng output taon-taon, nananalo ng awards sa loob at labas ng bansa. Sila ang tinaguriang “shot in the arm” ng naghihingalong industriya ng pelikula.
Kung pagbabatayan ang ikaapat na Cinemalaya ng Hulyo 2008, ang 27,000 nanood sa higit sa 200 indie films ay nagbabadya na mayroon nang deboto, kundi man komunidad, ang indie films. Ito ang tunay na box-office draw sa elitistang persepsyon at katangian ng Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP).
Ito lamang, maliban sa lingguhang pagtitipon ng El Shaddai, ang nakakapuno sa mga venue sa CCP. Indie films ang lumalabas na tunay na ideal market ng CCP—kabataan, culturati na may interes sa pag-unlad ng lokal na sining, willing tumangkilik, at higit sa lahat, magbayad. Ano pa ang hahanapin ng CCP?
Ang indie films ay nakalikha ng sarili nitong niche community. Niche pa lang ito dahil Metro Manila phenomenon, sa pangkalahatan, ang indie films. Bagamat mayroong pelikula mula sa rehiyon, mas ang itinatampok pa sa kompetisyon sa Cinemalaya ay ang sentrong nag-aaproba ng proyekto ng rehiyon o mga pelikulang may rehiyonal na flavor na pinondohan at nakakapasa sa panlasa ng sentro.
At dahil ang base ng komunidad—ang tumatangkilik—ay mga kabataang culturati na nakakapagbayad (kung gayon, gitnang uri na tulad din ng kasalukuyang audience ng lokal na sineng ang bayad ay P80 hanggang P140 kada tiket), hindi lamang sentrong phenomenon ang indie films, ito ay gitnang uring culturati na kaganapan.
Kumbaga sa pagsusuring pang-uri, ito ang pambansang burgesyang may interes sa pag-unlad ng lokal na industriya ng sining, kahit pa nga ito pinopondohan ng media na interes ni Tonyboy Conjuangco, ang patron ng Cinemalaya.
At kung ito ang katumbas ng pambansang burgesya, maliit ang bilang ng tumantangkilik ng indie films. Matapos ng apat na taon ng Cinemalaya, mabibilang ang indie films na nakapasok sa komersyal na venue, ang cinema complex sa malls. Tanging CCP, isang sinehan sa Robinson’s Galleria, at Cine Adarna ng University of the Philippines Film Institute ang may regular na programa ng screening ng indie films.
Ang empasis ng Cinemalaya sa naratibong pelikula ang nagpaunlad ng kasalukuyang “mainstream look” ng indie films. Kalakhan ng sampung pelikula sa kompetisyon ay mayroong diin sa narrative continuity at suture, tulad ng classical Hollywood narrative cinema.
Ang Boses (Ellen Ongkeko Marfil, direktor) ay epektibong nagpaagos ng luha sa manonood, kasama ako. Sino ang hindi maiiyak sa isang inabusong musmos na nakatuklas ng kapangyarihan ng musika ng biolin para makaagapay sa kanyang abang lagay? Na mula sa pagiging walang magawang biktima ng karahasan ng kanyang ama, siya naman ay naging willing na disipulo ng isang demanding na henyo, ngunit may mababang EQ (emotional quotient)?
Nawala na ang jittery movement na gamit ay mumurahing portable video camera. Napalitan na ng stilisadong off framing, panning at tilting movement para mag-simulate ng sinaunang dokumentaryo at new wave look. Sinadya na ang indie look, hindi nanggaling dahil sa indie mode of production.
Ang kinalabasan ay well-polished indie films, o indie films na may mainstream look. Ang tangi na lamang inaabanteng “indie spirit” ay ang paksa—batang inabuso at nakatuklas sa biolin, call center agents na inaanod (o nilulunod?) ng bagong buhay ng sunshine industry, sensualidad ng Ilonggo cuisine, at iba pa.
Wala na ang lingering camera movements ng poverty films at surrealist look na ang artist at manunulat ang pangunahing tauhan. Na-Hollywood-ized na ang indie films, o nagmistulang indie films sa U.S. na nag-aantay ma-pickup ng major studio. Na kaya na lamang indie films ang mga ito ay dahil hindi pa nga naipapalabas—bagamat kahit ngayon pa lang ay nangangarap na—sa komersyal na sinehan.
Sa awardings, nandoon si Mother Lily, ang anti-thesis ng indie films. Hindi nga ba’t si Raya Martin ay gumawa ng pelikulang misogynista at racista ukol sa pagkatupok sa “Mother Lily” character? Ano ang nangyari sa fantasy-ideal ng indie filmmakers na matupok ang Mother Lily-mainstream figure kung ang tunay na Mother Lily ay kabilang sa guest of honor ng pinakatampok na indie film festival sa bansa?
Ang mainstreaming ng indie cinema ay naghuhudyat ng reconciliatory position ng gatekeepers ng indie films—na may content na at kailangan na ng market. Sila na resulta ng pang-aapi ng mainstream cinema ay ngayon nag-aalok ng olive branch. Nakaka-touch, di ba? Pero dahil na rin hindi na nakakasapat ang CCP, Robinson’s at UP bilang venue. Kailangan nang makapasok ang indie films sa sinehan.
Kung gayon, ang kasalukuyang orkestrasyon ng indie films ay tungo sa mainstreaming nito. Naka-check na ang international awards. Muli nang nakapasok sa Cannes Film Festival Competition. Kailangan na lamang may manalo sa isa sa apat na first-tier festivals.
Naka-check na rin ang kabataang culturati—silang mga filmmakers ay ngayon ay audience. Kailangan na ng mas malakihang expansyon ng venue at market ng indie films. At hindi komunidad ng maralitang tagalunsod o unyon ang inaakalang venue nito. Ang oasis ng cinema complex sa tuktok na palapag ng malls.
May retransformasyon ng kultural na kapital ang kaakibat ng mainstreaming ng indie films. Ang dating indie filmmaker ay ngayon ay inaasahang maging astute marketers na rin ng kanyang pelikula. Kahit pa ang payo ng international programmers ay lumikha ng mga pelikulang orihinal, kakaiba at nanggagaling sa lokal na lipunan.
Sa 27,000 na nanood ng ikaapat na Cinemalaya, hindi iilan ang nangangarap maging filmmaker. Na hindi tulad ng writer na maaring gumawa ng akdang ibuburo niya sa pahina ng itinatagong journal, ang indie filmmaker, tulad ng blogger sa internet, ay may ini-imagine na publiko.
Siya na manonood ay umaasang maging manlilikha ng produktong mapapanood. Mayroong kultural na kapital ang indie filmmaker. Nakakapanghatak ito sa fantasisasyon ng nasa ibaba—ang kabataang culturati na makita ang sarili nilang ideal, at mahigitan ito sa matagalan.
Kahit pa ang indie filmmaker ay naglalayon maging mainstream. Na kung magpakaganito, siya na nag-iisip sa kanyang fantasya na nagsusunog kay Mother Lily ay siya palang nag-aalay ng bulaklak sa paanan nito, at nagpapakintab sa rebulto nito.
Kung magpakaganito, natupok na rin ang indie bilang kultural na kapital. Natransforma na ang kultural na kapital—anti-establisyimentong gamit sa pelikula, kontraryong bisyon sa sining, at pagtatanghal sa direktor bilang artist—at naging social capital na lamang ito.
Nakakaakyat na sa baitang ng mainstream at industriyang pampelikula ang indie filmmaker. Ang nagpakilos na rito ay hindi na dahil siya ay (ex-) indie filmmaker kundi kung sino na ang kanyang nakilala mula sa itaas na kaya ring maghaltak sa kanya sa higit pang panlipunan at pang-uring mobilidad.
Sa aking palagay, matapos ng ikaapat na taon, may krisis na ang indie films. Ang krisis ay sa pagbibigay-diin sa market—hindi pa audience na hindi naman nesesaryong nakakapagbayad—ng indie films. Ano ba yan?! Hindi ba nga nakakapaglakad ay nalulumpo na ang indie cinema.
Ang ginagawang pantawid para sa nilikhang kakulangan ng indie films ay ang pag-market ng pelikula. Kung ganito, pumaloob na ang indie films sa diskurso ng komersyalismo at industriya. Hindi iilang beses kong narinig sa mga nagsalita at filmmakers na “suportahan ninyo (manonood) ang indie films” na ibig sabihin ay bumili ng tiket at manood nito.
Imbis na isipin ang problema ay audience development, ang itinatampok na diskurso ay pag-penetrate sa palengke (market). Nagpapababa ito sa nakamit na kultural na kapital ng indie filmmakers—bilang propeta ng transformatibong sining. Kaya hindi rin kataka-taka na ang kalahating milyong grant mula sa Cinemalaya ay iniisip na kulang pa para makamit ang bisyon.
Nakadikit na rin ang estado sa Cinemalaya. Nandito ang karagdagang pondo at kredit sa Film Development Council of the Philippines (FDCP) at National Commission for Culture and the Arts. Na ang bisyon ng filmmaker ay dumadaan na rin sa kapital, kundi man sa lente na rin, ng estado.
Kaya rin hindi ako nagtataka kung bakit wala na ang legacy ng social realism ni Lino Brocka at modernistang critique ng gitnang uri ni Ishmael Bernal. Nawala na ang politikal na filmmaking sa bokabularyo ng indie filmmakers. Ang piniling idioma ay halaw sa language ng mainsteam filmmaking.
Tanging ang indie filmmakers na piniling manatili sa laylayan ng laylayan (ang naunang posisyon ng Cinemalaya) ang may nalalabing bisang gamit ng kultural na kapital. Na tila nagsasaad ng sumpa: na kapag piniling maging (tunay na) indie filmmaker, kailangang magpakatotoo sa sarili, na ang sarili ay konektado, sa batayang antas, sa sining, at ang sining ay halaw sa lipunan.
Walang short cut dahil kina-cut short ng mainstreaming ng indie films ang pagpapanatili sa indipendiente at transformatibong sining. Kaya rin hindi kakatwa na CCP ang venue at host ng Cinemalaya dahil tunay na tagapagpadaloy ang institusyong kultural ng estado sa nesesaryong kondisyon ng pangangapital ng estado.
Parang harsh, di ba? Pero alin ang mas harsh: ang kooptasyon ng CCP sa indie films sa direksyong tinungo nito sa paanan ng kapital—may audience pero bawas na ang integridad; may puri pero dulot na ng pagka-pickup nito ng international film festival programmer (kahit pa kinuwestiyun din itong purposiveness ng indie films sa pagiging circuitable sa foreign art market)–o ang kawalan ng market pero may mas angkop sa mas maliitang niche audience na sabayang tumatangkilik at trinatrasforma ng sining?
Dalawang magkausap na representatibo ang boundary markers nitong huli. Sa isang banda, ang figura ni Lav Diaz na nagbukas at nagpanatiling bukas ng panibagong landas para sa indie filmmakers—ang pagtuon ng susing diin sa sining at politika ng pagsasaad nito para sa politikal na transformasyon, hindi man ng politika, kundi ng sining ng politika.
Sa kabilang banda, ang dokumentaryong politikal na film collectives na lumilikha ng indie films (hindi naratibo, hindi feature-length) para sa partikular na sektor ng kilusang masa. Politikal ang panuntunan ng sining at ang sining ay gamit sa politikal na transformasyon.
Ang ipinagkaiba ng nakapaloob sa dalawang markerｓ na ito sa Cinemalaya ay ang politikal na intent sa indie filmmaking. Pinananatili ang politika ng sining at ang gamit ng sining sa politikal na transformasyon sa panuntunan ng mga figura ni Diaz at political film collectives. Nilulusaw na ito sa Cinemalaya.
Kapag mainstream, wala nang gamit ang kultural na kapital. Mismong kapital na ang impetu ng sirkulasyon ng pelikula, filmmaker at indie cinema. Kung gayon, pangangapital na turing ang mainstreaming ng indie filmmaking.
Kaya sa huli, ang tunay na indie filmmaking ay wala na sa kamay ng estado, kahit may aspekto pa rin ng paggamit dito (FDCP, halimbawa, sa pagbibigay ng pondo sa mga natanggap na pelikula sa dayuhang festivals, at siempre, ang pag-claim nito sa produkto bilang kanya na rin). Ang vanguards nito ay ay pagtungo sa pinakamalayong sulok ng estado, kung saan ito mahina at walang lubos na galamay sa pagpapatagos ng pangangapital nito. Kung saan ang tao ay pinakadahop ang kondisyong panlipunan, at kung gayon, pinakahinog para sa pagbabalikwas.
Ang tunay na indie cinema ay ang pagpanig sa tao at bayang mas nakapanig sa interes ng indie filmmakers, at kasangga sa paglaban sa estadong puno’t dulo ng malawakan at malalimang kaapihan nilang lahat. Ang tunay na indie films ay ang lumalaban sa interes ng estado, at nakakiling sa interes ng mamamayan.
Kaninong kwento ang ikinuwento at ikukwento mo? Alin rin kwento ang papaniwalaan at papanigan ng mamamayan?
from Bulatlat
Volume VIII, Number 26, August 3-9, 2008
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