From one ordinary viewer to Lav Diaz – man of the digital people

From Sonthaya Subyen/Filmvirus

August 2009

Goodness! You actually did it. You were crazy enough to take up our invitation to come to Thailand. Astonishing to think that a passing reference to you and Andrei Tarkovsky on my blog could deliver you to us like this.

Wasn’t it great though? The cinephiles in Bangkok surprised us all with their response to your films. Before the retrospective began I had to battle with the dreaded thought that us organizers would have to double up as your viewers. You’d turn up and get angry about how badly your retrospective was going – hardly any viewers, inadequate sound system and projector. I was already preparing myself in case we got raised eyebrows from our main venue, who made us rent our own equipment to use in their auditorium, and I resigned myself to getting an earful from you as well. Not so as it turned out. Our viewers were far more engaged than I’d anticipated – they were actually prepared to sit, or recline, for hours and hours watching your films. They even laughed along with the humorous moments in them. And you were far easier to talk to than I’d expected.

I guess I could blame my pal Filmsick for stressing me out before you turned up. He’d posted a terrifying image of you on his blog, the one of you leaning fiercely over a table taken at the Venice film festival. The posture was so alarming I had to imitate it for you the night we went to that bar by the river. Based on that photo, whenever people asked me whose retrospective it was that I was organizing, I would reply “Carabao”. I hope this doesn’t offend you. I’m not talking about the word for buffalo in Tagalog. I’m thinking of a Thai band famous for their ‘music for life’ style. In fact, I even joked to my friends that if you blew us out at the last minute I’d invite any of the Carabao band members to come and make an appearance instead. You guys look alike enough – long hair, jeans, goatee – we would have gotten away with it. The only catch being we would have had to pay these Carabao guys some several hundred thousand baht, whereas you and Alexis turned up out of your own pockets. Your coming to Bangkok was a sincere, friendly gesture, and we Filmvirus people loved you for that.

I can still vividly recall those amusing stories you told us, about how some student once accused you of not using hair conditioner, about how you accidentally featured a pop-up umbrella in a film you were working on, set in the Japanese occupation period. These memories are as deeply etched inside me as the afternoon we took you to see Khrua In Khong’s temple murals, hopping on a bus at Wat Arun, an afternoon which extended well into the night. That night ended memorably too with a ghostly encounter – all of us heard the same eerie, spectral moaning from one of the speakers attached to a public lamppost. And let’s not forget the consensus we stumbled on – all five of us around that table seemed to find Pen-ek’s films uniformly hollow. You really surprised me with your friendliness, and your entertaining conversations. You even bothered to ask me about my publishing projects, and the state of my health, about which you advised a daily dose of Wonderbra. Sorry! Wonderplant leaves. Of course I also discovered your intense cinephilia. You watch the classics – Mirror, Last Year at Marienbad – and the contemporary films – Abbas Kiarostami, Claire Denis. If I hadn’t happened to pop into a bookshop to buy Tarkovsky’s diary translated into Chinese, and the novel Picnic at Hanging Rock, I would never have found out about the extent of your knowledge of other people’s films. No wonder you got my joke about responding to Nicole Kidman the way Roberto Rossellini did to Ingrid Bergman – if Kidman ever wrote to you asking for a job.

There’s one thing I’m really curious about. Before you started turning your back on the market, on the majority audience, you used to make fully commercial films. I’m really curious about these films, made before Lav Diaz became Lav Diaz. Can’t begin to imagine what they’re like. Probably melodramatic, wildly emotional, am I right? Are they anything like those excessively dramatic radio soaps you show in Evolution of a Filipino Family? I’d really like to know too what you make of Filipino films in general, and what you think about those chaotically energetic entertainment films our hot humid region of Southeast Asia churns out. (If you ever want to know what would happen if you crossed the Famous Five stories with superstition, sci-fi, Seven Samurai and the TV series Six Million Dollar Man, don’t forget to check out a Thai film called Yod manut computer/Supercomputer Man. It’s a great example of the cultcult Thai movie.)

The Philippines probably has its fair share of over-the-top, cultish horrors. As far as I’m aware, Filipino filmmakers used to make B-movies for the Americans – mostly low budget gross-out horrors and women-in-prison shockers in the style of Roger Corman, or some such. Before you enrolled at that Goethe workshop with Christoph Janetzko (teacher of Raymond Red and our very own Paisit Punpreuksachat, also Pimpaka Towira), before you got into films, like Lino Brocka’s, that scraped the hard skin underneath the feet of politicians, was there ever a part of you that loved home-style entertainment movies? I get the impression there are many similarities between our national film cultures. So perhaps before you became the Lav Diaz who makes films at the very limit of our idea of cinema, before you became our digital hero, you may once have fallen under the spell of the 100% entertaining entertainment film too.

Since we both share a common ancestry, our dubious parallel heritage of nonsensical, instant noodle films, I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you about the Thai films of days long past. The films that were made before consciousness, morality, aesthetics, or plain old affectation took over, resulting in the robotic standard of propriety that imposes itself on Thai films today.

Back then Eden was filled with cheapie home-style movies, sincere in their transparency of purpose: to make a bit of dough by getting stars to do whatever they did most lovably in front of the camera. That was more than sufficient, economically speaking. The consciousness of the director as auteur was about a zillion kilometers removed, the demand for serious content was met, backhandedly. Miss Morality was always wheeled out, hurriedly, in the final closing minute – that was enough fodder for social decency. (Don’t get me wrong, the filmmakers meant well enough. It’s just that amusement went the opposite direction of aesthetics, and refused to exit the garden of infantile pleasures.) These were the days before the mass arrival of new waves figures such as Prince Chatrichalerm Yukol, Cherd Songsri, Khunnavutr, or Permpol Choei-arun, whose socially responsible films earned them the sacred halo of quality. Before they took over, we could boast of films once so ‘primitive’ that foreigners who get the chance to see them today would begin to understand that the stork didn’t deliver Apichatpong Weerasethakul to Thailand. We needed more help than that – perhaps some artificial insemination concocted by the gods of cinema.

Well, let’s face it, Thai films back then answered only to their own odd logic. Kids these days probably can’t begin to imagine what they were like, these films which were held captive to the monogamous coupling. Whoops! The monopolistic pairing of the leading man and lady. They’d also have to get used to the theatrical style of the voice performers, who gave our leading couples exaggeratedly crystalline intonation. This was the same period as the first generation of TV soaps, broadcast in black and white and performed live. Viewers bore witness to everything, the mistakes, the whispered prompting which sometimes had to be repeated several times before the actors could pick up where they left off. It’s true that, when compared to the TV soaps, the films of this period could at least edit out the mistakes. At least they used actual locations for background, rather than cheap wooden boards painted the texture of the sky or sea. But if we were to go further and speak of the 'lighting composition' of these films, we’d have to admit that the light did all the composing. All the human hand had to do was to shine as much light as was maximally possible onto the set. The heroines were over-the-top too, going to sleep in full makeup in a bedroom electric bright all the way from the foreground to the background. (This was the reason why this cinema’s biggest star, Petchara Chaowarat, went blind.) And what about the camera? With its love of the rapid zoom in and out, it made viewers travel through space faster than even the time machine itself.

The members of the cast: the mother and father, the minor royals, the major dignitaries, the servants, the baddies, the jealous mistress, the comedians positioned by the throne and the spittoon ready to massage and humor their masters, and don’t forget the sex bombs. All of these characters would line up in a single file in front of or behind the sofa, mouthing the longest dialogues – the lines that set sail and got lost, drifting further and further into distant water. The unfunny formula of getting the lines wrong then right then right then wrong again and again and again. (Just like what I wrote.) The lines that sometimes strayed below the belt (literally), playing for time while the couple inched their way back to their abode. That’s right, the taproot of likay folk opera runs deep in Thai cinema. This is a truth not recognized by the new wave army just mentioned, or the teen filmmakers of the Tai Entertainment era (mid-1980s to 1990s), intent as each of them were to scrub Thai films clean of their primitivism. This trajectory they call progress has since delivered us the company GTH (Gmm Tai Hub), whose films display not an iota of awareness that the more they try to create decorative, trendy mise-en-scenes, the further their films stray from the lives of ordinary people. This is why us oldies, who have fallen out of the trend, have had to flee into the embrace of TV, both as viewers and producers.

But once upon a time there was a pair of stars I followed passionately, called Sombat Methanee and Aranya Namwong. Their names resonate so strongly still among the folks of my generation. Every time I think of the first Thai film in my living memory their faces come to mind. Up to the 1980s, Thai cinema was a cinema of a handful of stars, coupled off in pseudo-romantic pairs. The last of these was the pairing of Jintara Sookkapat and Santisuk Promsiri. There wasn’t the kind of inflation of stardom you see now. Mit Chaibancha and Sombat each starred in god knows how many movies a month. They literally had no time to sleep. Every time a scene was shot of the hero climbing up to a helicopter, whoever financed that film would reach for the nearest prayer book. (Back then the stars did their own stunts. No sling, no stunt – we had that long before Ong Bak laid claim to it. In fact that was how Mit, the number one leading man before Sombat came along, met his death – plunging off a rope ladder dangling from a helicopter mid flight.)

At the height of his fame Sombat could probably be compared to Gérard Depardieu, the French ex-superstar. He could star in any genre – drama, action, but was in his element in smutty comedies. You could say of all the James Bonds he was most like Roger Moore. Even better was the fact that he had a fine voice, and had been a singer before he became a star. Compared to Sombat, Mit was a leading man in another style – polite, modest, a gentleman both on the screen and off. He was probably more like Sean Connery.

As for the content of films Sombat starred in, there wasn’t much to worry about. In those days if the filmmakers didn’t adapt, or mangle, a novel, they’d make up their own plot. In most cases they’d steer clear of realism or serious content. The stars were so busy working on so many films at the same time they didn’t have time to change their hairstyles to suit each role. And why bother? When their fans loved them as they were, wanted to see them in the kind of stories they were used to, and devoured the sight of their smiles and body language in a manner that they could identify with. Intellectual affectation really wasn’t an appropriate accessory to these films.

The first love is always the best love, right? Although I came to admire male stars like Pairoj Jaising, Pairoj Sungwoributr, Kanchit Kwanpracha, Yodchai Meksuwan, Sorapong Chatree, and Thoon Hiranyasap, each for different reasons, Sombat still remains the number one for me. The fact that he’s been in all sorts of atrocious films (including that one, Tears of the Black Tiger) doesn’t change the way I feel for him. Once I even went as far as to seek out his biography, called Pen phra-ek sa jon dai/A Star at Last. It claims he’s been entered in the Guinness Book of World Records as the man who’s starred in the greatest number of films, more than 617, and opposite at least 87 leading ladies.

So are you beginning to see now how much of this rubbish is in me, Lav? This wasn’t the side of me I revealed during our conversations. How I would like to have a go at making a film in this primitive style, the type of film that might end with a twist revealing the hero to be a police captain in disguise, sent on an undercover mission. I’d especially like to lay my hands on our very own kind of romcom. But there would be no point in doing this only to pay sentimental homage to the films of the past, or to express a yearning for the good old days. And of course there would be no point at all in satirizing them. Anyone who wants to cite these films in the present would have to do so with understanding and attachment. They can neither blindly elevate the films nor raise themselves above them. And let’s hope the result would differ from Tears of the Black Tiger and The Adventures of Iron Pussy (although I do like this film of Apichatpong’s).

Is my letter getting too long for you, Lav? I hope not, since you make 11-hour films. Like I said to you in person, sitting through your films made the tender skin on my buttocks so sore I had to rub Tiger balm on them (true story); to which you replied, “Sorry man”. So consider this my turn to claim your time.

The point of telling you my shaggy dog story is this: I wanted to let you know that Sombat Methanee has directed films too, 16 in total if I’m not mistaken. No, they’re not particularly good, but I expect many Thais remember them still. The most memorable one for me is Salakjit, with Sombat in the leading role opposite the young Jarunee Suksawad (think of Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in Charade). But let me tell you about his fourth films, Yae nuad sua or, in English, Operation Black Panther.

That’s right, black panther, though on the credit titles roams a pink panther in the style of a Blake Edwards’s Inspector Cluzot film. In Sombat’s film the Black Panther is the name of a terrorist organization up to no good as usual. In films like this one, if terrorist organizations are not bent on conquering the world then they’re busy killing this or that person. Think of Dr Fu Manchu or James Bond. Everyone in the Black Panther organization wears a mask. The punishment dealt to those lower down the line of command includes the 007 trick of throwing them into the panther’s cage.

What does our hero Sombat have to do with this sinister organization? Well, the nonsensical pretext is that our hero happens to be addicted to mystery novels of the Sherlock Holmes, Arsène Lupin or James Bond varieties. By a series of mishaps the Black Panther takes him for one of their assassins, so our unwitting hero has to carry out the tasks assigned to him.

The assassin from Harvard falls at the first hurdle. He turns up late for work forgetting to load the bullets in his gun. For this piece of stupidity our assassin becomes the man wanted by the organization.

It’s the moment Sombat appears in one particular scene that I would like to make you, Lav Diaz, party to history (this history which is so important to me). It’s the moment of his arrival in Siam Square.

Do you remember Siam Square, Lav? On it sits New Light restaurant where our 20 strong group ended up, on its third floor, after the opening night of your retrospective. Thirty odd years separate the New Light we ate in and the New Light in the film, but in terms of its architecture and atmosphere not a great deal has changed. The shops around it have though – god knows when the Hard Rock Café suddenly cropped up. Back then the clothes, the hairstyles and the taxis looked very naff, but Sombat’s car more than compensates for these lapses in taste. It’s a car that doesn’t look as pretty as Herbie, and at best it’s only a distant relative to the Mini Cooper. But what it has that the other cars lack is two front parts. That’s right, two front parts facing the opposite direction with one steering wheel in each part.

Better late than never as they say. The comical honking of a car horn announces the arrival of Sombat’s silly yet useful vehicle. He may be late for his assassin’s job, but the compact size of the car means our hero can squeeze into the meagre gap that passes for parking space in Siam Square’s crowded hive. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the square that never gets lonely, whatever the age.

Here we are in the parking space in front of New Light restaurant. The spot where Thailand’s leading politician, the arch enemy of the Black Panther, is about to get popped off. He will walk out of the restaurant after his meal and get into his car right here.

Meantime Sombat is waiting opposite the restaurant, the same side of the square as the Doungkamol Bookshop. In the frame you get a crystal clear view of the shop’s sign: D.K. Bookhouse, the original branch of the book company I used to work for, the company that used to publish good books for generations of readers. The company that gave a space for D.K. Filmhouse (Filmvirus), those good people who brought to you astonishing, unusual films (aren’t we modest!) – films like Lav Diaz’s (boundless loyalty).

Next up the chase scene, the universal part of cinematic language that’s been around right from the start, in the films of cinema’s forefathers the Lumières and especially in D.W. Griffith’s films. The scene we’re watching right now records the chase across Bangkok from Siam Square to the Golden Pagoda.

No matter how hard the villains chase him Sombat always eludes their grasp. His weapon is the pocket car’s time saving genius. Whenever he finds himself hounded into a tight corner, Sombat would jump across into the other seat with the steering wheel. In this way he could drive off the opposite direction without wasting time reversing the car. Little Red’s double fronted model is a marvel of motor design giving the car the agility of a town mouse.

This was Thai cinema’s answer to the James Bond or other spy thrillers of that period, its effort to match the genre’s formula featuring the talented, charming hero, the ladies’ man with his latest technological or motor gadgets. The gadget in Sombat’s film was novel enough for me at least. The kid that I was then was dumbfounded by the sight of it, which made me fantasize about getting my very own toy version to play with.

Fast forward to the end of the film, the hero and heroine now sit behind each steering wheel taking turns to drive Little Red through narrow lanes dodging the enemies hot on their heels. The end arrives for this trusty little car when action girl on the enemy’s side has a stroke of genius and shoots multiple bullets down the middle of the mini where the two front parts are joined. Oh what a shame, amidst the shower of bullets raining down on it, our little mini becomes almost crippled. The steering wheel still works all right, but the back part of the car now trails limply scraping the road surface. Our hero has no choice except to rely on brawn, and pure luck, to get him out of this final tight spot.

Of course no hero of this period could be a hero without martial arts skill. The other more interesting skill that heroes also needed to have, and Sombat had in spades, was sex appeal. In both the films that he starred in, and the films that he directed, Sombat didn’t shy away from bringing out this quality of his. Every now and then during a film’s running time, ladies adorned with only the bottom half of their two-piece would cling to him (in a manner that no grade-A Thai films these days would dare to do). He’d show off his toned muscles posing in small underpants, the color of bright canary yellow in some films. Sometimes he’d receive multiple blows from the villains, who’d end the lesson dealt to him by stripping him down to his red underpants. Even more astonishing still are the details in the biography I mentioned earlier. Sombat freely discloses in this book his tricks for the love scenes, his experiences in brothels (regarded as acceptable in those days), and even his tete-a-tetes with homosexual men – in the kind of saucy details that beggar belief that a leading man would dare to reveal this much of his life.

Oh yes, I could carry on for days and days telling you more nonsense of this kind, Lav. But I don’t know if you yourself have any fondness left in you for silly, obsolete movies like this. (Or is your foot now itching to thwack the tender spot on my buttock where Tiger Balm was applied?) Yes of course the good old days are only a myth. Knockabout films like Luk sao kamnan/The Henchman’s Daughter, Mue peun nom sod/Fresh Milk Gun Man, or Kai luk khoei/Son-in-Law Eggs may have been part of the sweet scent of my past, but I have long been carrying this immense anger against Thai cinema too. Maybe I shouldn’t expect so much from something that’s as close to me as this. Maybe I should accept what’s real, make peace with Thai cinema in all its limitations, and give up nursing the hope that one day this thing will change into what it isn’t. But then again I’m probably blind to the value of Thai films as a kind of social barometer. I could try harder to fall in love with lowbrow kitsch, to delight in writing about them as a kind of alchemic reinvention – the kind of film criticism that Filmsick does so brilliantly. But then again I lost my head so long ago to the films cultural institutes of the west used to show. I guess you could call my submission to their activities a form of ‘colonial’ inculcation.

As I write this sentence a strangely bitter laugh wells up inside me, yet brings with it a warm glow I experience so rarely in life – a sudden feeling of safety and belonging. Who knows what this is all about – perhaps it’s a sign of the last remaining thread that still binds me to this nation of mine. It’s only a strange thread, though, neither like Spiderman’s nor the web of the Black Widow.

What about you, Lav? Have you ever been in this position? Have you ever had to work through bittersweet attachment like this one? Please send some advice. Tell me how you manage to stay on your feet in the business of cinema that’s so far removed from the realities of Filipino society.

With respect,
and proud to have met you,

Sonthaya Subyen


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Sonthaya Subyen founded Doungkamol Filmhouse, or D.K. Filmhouse, in 1995. D.K Filmhouse continues to program screening tours around university campuses in Bangkok and other provinces. Sonthaya writes film and literary criticisms for several magazines and is the publisher of the Filmvirus and Bookvirus paperback series.

Translated by May Adadol Ingawanij

From criticine.com (Love Letters)
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Tiré à part

Nicolas Giuliani

La terre s’est ouverte sous nos pieds. Le paysage s’est déchiré
de l’intérieur – un cyclone est passé, le monde a tremblé dans
cette fureur. La mer a avancé dans les terres, des villages ont
été arrachés, retournés, vomis dans des champs de pierres
et de cadavres. Le monde des hommes a cessé de tourner,
frappé au corps de son souvenir. Des hommes hagards, le
visage retourné, sortent de terre, descendent des arbres. Ils
reviennent d’un coin du monde qui les a protégés – une cachette,
un abri, un trou. Ce sont des survivants. Ce sont peut-être des
fantômes, le grand drap du cinéma est tombé.
Ça commence comme un balbutiement, après le drame, dans
un paysage apocalyptique. Lentement, les hommes reprennent
la tâche, et dans l’air recommencent le geste. La parole
remonte jusqu’à nous. Lav Diaz est là. Il enregistre, il filme ces
visages, ces hommes qui se tiennent debout et racontent. Il
faut réparer, avancer, compter les morts, faire d’un paysage
ce que l’on fait d’un visage familier soudainement secoué par
une émotion inconnue : le comparer avec le précédent, étudier
sa disparition, ce qui le renouvelle – le dépaysager. On retrouve
sa maison encastrée dans celle du voisin. Chacun a ses
confessions. « Ma mère est partie. Où sont mes enfants ? Mon
pauvre père. » Une blessure profonde tient le monde au ventre,
une béance – quelque chose est passé dans le réel, un gouffre
s’est ouvert dans la matière, sous nos pieds de spectateurs.
Mais un homme pleure. C’est Benjamin Agusan, un poète
philippin revenu de la Russie d’où il réside. Il est tombé à genoux,
il empoigne de la terre. Et comme si un mouvement plus sourd
provenant de sa volonté était aussi à l’oeuvre, il s’arrête. Tout
semble brusquement plus vide dans ce plan qui résonne. La
tristesse est immense. Lav Diaz a invité la fiction dans le réel.
Et alors qu’on tremblait en se demandant que faire de cette
beauté, de cette souffrance, Benjamin Agusan arrive à point et
prend en charge notre regard à la dérive. L’appréhension du
réel se fera par détournement, par le biais de la fiction. Mais ce
postulat romanesque est aussi une offrande érigée en principe
cinématographique : le documentariste a besoin de la fiction
comme d’une nécessité afin de saisir la complexité du réel, sa
fuite en avant, son bruit mat et sourd, sa profonde finitude et
digérer ainsi, modestement et avec sincérité, la fracture qui
se trouve entre le monde et nous, entre le réel et sa possible
représentation. Il y a une angoisse de la représentation,
une peur profonde de la forme qu’empruntera le réel pour
se mouvoir en elle – comment dire la mort, la blessure, la
mutilation ? Sans doute le documentaire, plus qu’aucune autre
expression artistique, se trouve-t-il à la frontière du visible et
de l’indicible. On montre le réel, on le révèle, ou on le cache.
On le soulève, on le déracine, on le surprend. De fait, il est
aujourd’hui entendu que Lav Diaz est comme tous les grands
cinéastes un documentariste, c’est-à-dire un filmeur qui élargit
les possibilités d’expression du réel par le biais de la fiction.
Benjamin Agusan pleure, il est le visage délaissé de ce
paysage de la désolation. A cet instant il est le caractère de
la compassion, et à cet égard le double du spectateur : il nous
relaie mais nous renvoie aussi une autre image. Nous voilà
calés sur le point de vue cinématographique de Lav Diaz : le
plus souvent la focalisation est externe et l’observation de la
situation prime sur son explication. La place du spectateur est
immense, et sa tâche doit être à la hauteur des espérances qui
sont fixées en nous : il faudra suivre le parcours de Benjamin,
affronter le deuil, la perte, l’errance, chanceler sous le poids
du souvenir et de la nostalgie, rêver d’amour, se heurter à la
mort et à la haine du pays natal. Le cinéma de Lav Diaz procède
par recouvrement et fixe son interrogation dans la question la
plus belle et la plus tragique de notre existence : celle de la
disparition. Etre au réel ou être au monde, c’est toujours faire
l’expérience de son inachèvement – un cinéma du réel nous
fait constater cette fracture, ce manque, cette absence. Cette
dimension du recouvrement s’inscrit dans le fer de la poétique
de Lav Diaz, car c’est un cinéma de la quête qui nous demande
à la fois de nous retourner et de nous avancer ; un cinéma de
la lutte qui nous confronte à la terreur du réel, et au souvenir
prochain de la pourriture qui nous guette – la mort est là, nous
demeurons en elle dans l’attente irrésolue de notre disparition.
L’homme chez Lav Diaz est soumis à une tension de l’existence
qui le déchire et le révolte. Il est hanté, dans sa farouche volonté
de vivre, par l’ombre du destin. L’apparition au monde se heurte
à son tragique effritement : c’est cette collision entre les deux
pôles de l’existence qui fournit au matériau dramatique de Lav
Diaz, son carburant et son feu.

Dans Death in the land of encantos (2007), c’était le parcours
de Benjamin qui incarnait cette quête. On le suivait, on prenait
ses pas, on s’ajustait à son mouvement. On le voyait dans
un contexte. On avançait dans cette grande fresque lyrique,
travaillée par le temps et ponctuée par les ellipses. On nous
donnait progressivement quelques indices qui comblaient
les lacunes et éclairaient les gestes des personnages à la
lumière d’un passé de l’ombre. On bâtissait des ponts entre les
personnages, entre les lieux et les actions : tout devenait limpide
malgré la virtuosité de la forme faite d’échos, de renvois, de
visions, de retours. Les lignes temporelles s’enchevêtraient. Le
passé revenait – la mère folle, la soeur tant aimée, des histoires
de famille, le corps d’une femme nue et endormie, sublimé par
des mots chuchotés. Le présent nous confondait en de longs
plans séquences. Le film interrogeait notre avenir et notre
Histoire ajustée dans un regard. Mais le recouvrement qui
était à l’oeuvre chez Benjamin, ce grand retour sur soi auquel
on assistait comme à une lutte secrète, perdue d’avance,
était métaphorisé par la catastrophe naturelle. De même que
le passé de Benjamin était enseveli sous les décombres du
temps, la terre natale aussi, après la catastrophe, avait perdu
la face. Dans les deux cas, il faut creuser pour retrouver ce qui
a été perdu, ce qui a disparu, ce qui est enfoncé. Car ce qui
a bougé dans une terre peut aussi bouger dans un homme :
l’analogie de la perte traverse les deux corps. Un grand souffle
est passé. La matière du monde s’infuse dans la personne de
Benjamin. Les palmiers, longs et aigus, tailladant le Ciel, la
mouvance gracieuse de leurs feuilles dans le vent. La pluie qui
ne cesse pas, la moiteur qui remonte et les ruisseaux gonflés.
Tout se tait, tout parle. Le bruissement du monde raconte notre
mélancolie. Dans la fiction, le réel est partout – séquences de
reportage et scènes romanesques s’entrecroisent, s’interrogent
mutuellement, se répondent, se creusent en de longs tunnels
dans les flancs du volcan, dans les vers du poète.

Le même principe de recouvrement est à l’oeuvre dans Evolution of
a Filipino Family (2004). Un enfant, Raynaldo, est retrouvé dans les
rues basses de Manille. Il est adopté par une mère folle, douce et
aimante, une femme qui flotte plus qu’elle ne marche, une présence
évanescente qui a tendu l’oreille au monde et aux coquillages de
la mer. Mais elle éveille la brutalité des hommes. Raynaldo reste
seul. Il grandit. La vie le trimballe, le secoue. Il connaîtra plusieurs
foyers : celui d’une grand-mère patriarcale et de ses trois petitesfilles
; celui des hommes, de Fernando et de ses fils. Le principe
de recouvrement dans ce film consiste à déplier ces seize années
d’existence tressées dans l’évidence du réel, pendant et après la
dictature de Marcos. La fiction documente, elle propose un point de
vue sur l’Histoire à partir d’événements intimes et familiaux. Elle se
hausse à la particularité de notre oeil. Car l’Histoire est saisie dans
les êtres, sous notre front, prise dans sa dimension individuelle – son
traitement est incarné, physique, jamais abstrait. L’Histoire habite le
monde et Lav Diaz soumet ce réel à des variations poétiques qui
déteignent dans les existences. Pas une des vies qui est en jeu dans
les films de Lav Diaz n’est pas soumise aux puissances de l’Histoire.
Les images d’archives et les entretiens nombreux qui scandent
l’évolution dramatique sont comme autant de pauses chantées
par des choeurs. Ce matériau documentaire donne des repères au
spectateur, fixe le réel, le jalonne, et par ce biais, pénètre la fiction et
la recharge. Car Lav Diaz orchestre un ingénieux va-et-vient entre
les événements politiques réels et leurs répercussions dans le récit :
Kadyo, l’oncle de Raynaldo, face au chef des guérilleros locaux :
« Marcos est au pouvoir depuis 24 ans » ; Kadyo dans une cachette,
écoutant l’interview du cinéaste Lino Brocka sur les relations entre
le cinéma philippin et le régime de Marcos ; Kadyo assistant à la
manifestation d’un mouvement politique de gauche. Mais dans le
cours du film, la circulation du fait politique se transmet aussi par
l’agencement de ses formes diverses. L’association entre les archives
et la fiction ouvre une brèche dans le récit. Le montage les conjugue
et les sépare, les combine et les disjoint. Les éléments sont liés les
uns aux autres dans l’évidence de la fiction, mais s’interrogent aussi
mutuellement et fracturent le réel. Cette intelligence du montage
est un chef d’oeuvre d’organisation du discours politique, car il ouvre
les points de vues. Lav Diaz n’impose pas une vision qui aplanirait
le réel dans une dimension unilatérale, mais rend plutôt compte
des contradictions dialectiques inhérentes à la réalité. Chez lui, le
politique est poétique, complexe, diffus. Il a pénétré les mailles du
réel et c’est au spectateur d’investir son champ de résonances.
Il faut écouter ce souffle épique qui ne tarit pas, ces grandes
vagues lyriques incrustées dans la surface du plan – faites de
noirs et de gris, d’écumes, de silences que charge l’existence
des hommes et qui se dilatent dans le quotidien romanesque
des personnages. Il faut faire corps avec ces films, il faut se
cogner aux flancs fumants de ces monstres – ces films sont des
bêtes rugissantes, le mufle chaud, rutilant. Il faut les frapper,
les enfourcher, les prendre contre soi, saignantes, pleines de
rages, de fureurs, de lances brisées dans le garrot. Il y a un
fantastique du réel, ou du moins une mystique, une force qui
le tient et le retourne en des visions surnaturelles. C’est dans
ce dépassement de la réalité, que Lav Diaz confère au réel
des visions déchirées qui le transmuent en une réalité plus
profonde, car plus intime, inscrite dans la trajectoire d’une quête
sensible pour la vérité. Ce cinéma éveille des vieux fantômes, il
les invite à sa table, sur le drap blanc parfaitement repassé de
nos songes. Il faut écouter ce bruissement mystérieux qui nous
égare, et par lequel pourtant, on nous offre de nous ressaisir et
de réévaluer l’intensité de notre rapport au monde.
Les grands cinéastes développent une mythologie de la
croyance à l’égard du spectateur. Ils ont confiance en nos
intuitions, en nos désirs. Et c’est ainsi, par la grâce d’un regard
soutenu, que l’on s’approprie ces grands films fleuves, dans la
limpidité de leur fait. Ce sont des films qui nous attendent, il
faut les habiter.

From Cinema du Reel, March 14, 2008

Smutek nad miską ryżu

Anna Kilian

Z Lavem Diazem rozmawia Anna Kilian

Pana „Melancholię” ogląda się z rosnącą fascynacją. W miarę jak – warstwa po warstwie – odkrywa pan przed nami prawdę o bohaterach, zżywamy się z nimi do tego stopnia, że trudno nam się z nimi rozstać...

Lav Diaz: Wspaniale słyszeć taką opinię, chciałem, żeby widzowie tak film odbierali. To ważne dla mnie, bo to długi, ośmiogodzinny obraz. A skoro poruszamy kwestię jego długości, to muszę przyznać, że dziwi mnie, że tak mocno się ją zazwyczaj podkreśla. Film powinien być dziełem sztuki, ocenianym w kontekście swojej jakości, historii, jaką opowiada, i formy, za pomocą której to robi.

Przecież utworu muzycznego czy obrazu nie ocenia się pod względem ich rozmiarów. Przykro mi słyszeć, że nawet uniwersyteccy wykładowcy przedmiotów związanych ze sztuką filmową skupiają się przede wszystkim na długości moich projektów. Przy czym „Melancholia” nie jest najdłuższa – „Death in the Land of Encantos” trwa dziewięć godzin, tyle samo „Heremias (Book One: The Legend of the Lizard Princess)” czy „Evolution of a Filipino Family”.

Przedstawia pan troje bohaterów jako prostytutkę, alfonsa i zakonnicę. Zbici z tropu bardzo wiarygodną interpretacją aktorską zostajemy – widzowie – wyprowadzeni w pole, gdyż postaci przybierają nagle inne tożsamości. Czy zamierzał pan dać przekrój filipińskiego społeczeństwa?

Chciałem pokazać współczesne Filipiny i bohaterów żyjących tu i teraz, ale uwikłanych w tragiczną przeszłość naszego kraju. Alberta, Rina i Julian, a wraz z nimi tysiące Filipińczyków, nigdy nie otrząsnęli się po tym, co spotkało ich rodziny podczas okupacji japońskiej, a potem dyktatury Ferdinanda Marcosa, gdy polityczni przeciwnicy byli porywani i mordowani. Przy tym większość moich współmieszkańców ma bardzo krótką pamięć. Nasi oprawcy nigdy nie zostali osądzeni. Nikogo nie rozliczono z popełnionych zbrodni. Syn Marcosa, Ferdinand Jr., zasiada w Kongresie, a jego matkę Imeldę odznaczono za wkład w rozwój kultury na Filipinach. Filipińczycy są z natury – jak to Malajowie – bierni i apatyczni, nieprzyzwyczajeni do konsekwentnego i zorganizowanego działania.

W dodatku – mówię to a propos braku rozliczeń – to bardzo mili i łagodni ludzie, którzy prędzej oddadzą ostatnią miskę ryżu (od którego jestem, jako Filipińczyk, uzależniony) gościowi niż swojemu dziecku. I zawsze się uśmiechają, choć w ich sercach często gości smutek. Na ten filipiński smutek wskazuje tytuł filmu.

Alberta, Rina i Julian stanowią w filmie pomost między przeszłością a teraźniejszością. Czy temu właśnie miało też służyć pokazanie w jednym filmie tradycyjnych tańców i śpiewu w stylu Kundiman oraz punkowego koncertu, pogo i zespołu grającego noise?

Tak. Dzisiejsze Filipiny to bardzo bogata kultura, której tradycyjne aspekty współistnieją ze współczesnymi. Ale bardzo ważna jest dla każdego kraju jego historia, bez której naród byłby niczym. Dlatego w „Melancholii” znalazła się retrospekcja dotycząca Desaparecidos (nazwa nadawana ludziom porywanym przez siły rządowe różnych krajów, by usunąć ich z życia publicznego – przyp. red.), powiązana z postacią Alberty.

W pana kraju powstaje dużo bardzo dobrych filmów.

Rzeczywiście, wielu twórców realizuje filmy, najczęściej techniką cyfrową, bo to najtańszy sposób. Mamy bardzo długą tradycję filmową. Pierwsze obrazy powstawały na Filipinach w kilka lat po paryskiej projekcji braci Lumiere. Niestety, wszystkie zaginęły, bo nigdy nie powstało żadne archiwum zbierające i konserwujące taśmy filmowe.

A czy istnieje na Filipinach tradycja szkół filmowych? Pan żadnej nie skończył.

Nigdy nie było u nas takich instytucji edukacyjnych, pojawiły się stosunkowo niedawno. Ja przez wiele lat byłem dziennikarzem filmowym i reporterem, a kiedy dobiłem czterdziestki, w 1998 r. zacząłem kręcić filmy. Nie uczyłem się tego, po prostu wziąłem kamerę do ręki.

Ma pan dość niezwykłe imię. Nie jest chyba filipińskie?

Rzeczywiście. Mój ojciec jest zdeklarowanym socjalistą zafascynowanym kulturą, a zwłaszcza literaturą rosyjską. Dał mi na imię Ławrentij, ale na szczęście nie po Ławrentiju Berii. Tata z mamą, też socjalistką, poznali się na studiach, a potem pojechali w sam środek dżungli zakładać szkoły dla muzułmańskich dzieci, choć sami nie są religijni.

Od tego czasu „środek lasu” rozrósł się do sporych rozmiarów miasta.

From Ostatnia Aktualizacja, Warsaw, 30-11-2009

Mindanao: a work-in-progress

Ni Lav Diaz


Rasyunal sa iksi at kawalan ng image

Sa simula, dilim at titulo lang ang bubulaga, at hindi pa man nakakahikab, tapos
na. Dilim at titulo lang—Mindanao: a work-in-progress. Bagamat magkakaroon
ng ebolusyon ang installation. Sa durasyon ng exhibit, magkakaroon ng images,
padagdag nang padagdag. At sa huling lingo, maaaring isa nang buong pelikula
ang mapapanuod. Organic ang proseso ng installation. Gaya nang pagiging
organic ng proseso sa paghahanap ng kapayapaan at sagot sa problema sa
Mindanao—ginamitan ng lakas military mula pa kay Marcos (1971), panunuhol
sa mga lider Muslim (ilang bilyon na ang natapon), nakipagkape at wine si
Imelda kay Khadaffi sa loob ng tent sa disyerto sa Tripoli, nagtayo ng
autonomous region at yumaman at nakulong si Misuari, pinasasawsaw pa sa
usapin ang Malaysia, Indonesia at mga Arabo sa usaping dapat ay panloob
lamang, ang sirkus ng MOA na nauwi na naman sa pagdanak ng dugo.

Wala na sa kumbensyon ng Hollywood ang cinema. Malayo na ang cinema bilang
isang sining. Hindi lang negosyo ang cinema. At hindi lang ito naratibong
beginning-middle-end. At kailangan bang maraming dekorasyon o maingay ang
isang installation para magmukhang magaling? Hindi ba mas mahalagang
tingnan ang diskursong inihahain ng isang obra?

Sa nag-iisip, maliwanag ang sinasaad ng Mindanao: a work-in-progress. At kung
nag-iisip nga ang titingin, napakahaba at tila walang katapusan—matagal nang
work-in-progress ang Mindanao, at hindi pa nakikita kung saan hahantong ang
lahat, kung saan matatapos ang mga diskurso at tunggalian. O, may katapusan
nga ba ang masalimuot na isyung Mindanao?
Sabi nga ng isang Muslim na datu sa amin sa Maguindanao kung tatanungin mo
kung hanggang saan ang kanyang lupain: “Taman sa mailay ningka.” (Hanggang
sa abot ng paningin mo.)

Pyudalismo

Ang pangungusap na ito ng datu ay isang katotohanan sa Mindanao. Isang
pundamental na isyu ang pyudalismo sa Mindanao, lalo na sa mga pook na
kinasasangkutan ng mga tinatawag nilang sigwa ng Muslim-Kristiyano, o sa mas
malawak na diskurso ng pulitika at ideyolohiya, ang rebolusyon ng Bangsa Moro.
Sa kakulangan ng cultural/sociological/historical perspective ng mga tinatawag
na nasasangkot sa usapin sa sigwa sa Mindanao, tila hindi lumilitaw ang isyu ng
pyudalismo. Mahirap ipaliwanag kung bakit hindi nagagalaw ang isyung ito.
Kulang nga ba sa kaalaman ang mga henyo ng gobyerno sa isyung ito?
Tinatalakay ba ng Moro National Liberation Front ang isyung ito? Pinag-uusapan
ba nila ang pagwasak sa pyudalismo bilang isa sa mga malalaking sagot para sa
kapayapaan sa Mindanao?

Sistemang Datu

Saglit tayong bumalik sa kasaysayan ng arkipelagong ito, na ngayo’y tinatawag
na bayang Pilipinas.

Mayroon tayong tinatawag na pre-Mohamedan at pre-Hispanic period. Ito’y
noong panahong purong Malay at aborigines pa ang mga isla.
Ang pre-Mohamedan period ay ang panahong hindi pa nagiging Muslim ang mga
tribung Maranao (Lanao), Maguindanao (sa dating Cotabato na ngayo’y nahahati
na sa mga probinsyang Maguindanao, North Cotabato, South Cotabato, Sultan
Kudarat at Sarangani) at Tausog (Sulo, Basilan, Tawi-tawi). Ang mga tribung
Maranao, Maguindanao, Tausog at ilang bahagi ng mga Badjao ang mga unang
tinatawag na ‘conquered tribes’ sa arkipelago sa isyu ng relihiyon. Sila ang mga
naging Muslim na mga tribung Malay sa arkipelago. At kung totoo nga, at hindi
pa naman napapatunayan, ang ilang Tagalog sa bahaging Tondo na sakop noon
ni Rajah Soliman, ay naging Muslim din. Isang Rajah din daw sa isang balangay
(barangay) sa bahaging Tarlac kasama ng kanyang nasasakupan ang naging
Muslim. Ang mga Muslim na nananahanan ngayon sa dulong timog ng Palawan
ay sinasabing mga migrasyon mula sa Sulu, Tawi-Tawi at Basilan.

Bago pa man dumating ang mga misyunerong Muslim sa Mindanao, kultura na
ng mga Malay ang sistemang Datu. Ang kultrang ito ay umaabot sa buong
kapuluan ng naging Pilipinas, hanggang sa mga Malay sa mga bayang tinatawag
ngayong Indonesia, Malaysia at Brunei. At ang sistemang ito ay napanatili
hanggang sa kasalukuyan sa mga tribung yumakap sa relihiyon at paniniwalang
Muslim o Islam. Nawala ang sistemang ito sa mga Malay sa arkipelago na naging
Kristiyano o Katoliko. Bagamat ang pyudalismo naman ay nananatili pa rin
(hindi nga ba’t may CARP o programang land reform ang gobyerno para ayusin
daw ito?).

Maguindanao

Isang particular na kaso ang probinsiya ng Maguindanao. Ang malawak at
mayamang probinsiyang ito ay nobenta porsiyentong Muslim ang papulasyon at
iilang datu lamang ang nagmamay-ari ng mga lupain. Ang mga tradisyunal na
mga datu dito ay ang mga pamilyang Sinsuat, Piang, Paglas, Ampatuan,
Dilangalen, Matalam, Pendatun. Napanatili ng mga pamilyang datu ang kanilang
kontrol sa malalawak na bahagi ng probinsiya hanggang sa kasalukuyan.
Malaking bahagi ng papulasyon ay mga nasasakupan pa rin ng mga datu.
Lumaki ako sa isang bayan ng Maguindanao na apat na pamilyang datu lamang
ang nagmamay-ari ng napakalalawak na mga lupain. Karamihan nang mga
Muslim ay tagasunod at tauhan lamang ng mga datu. May ilang Muslim naman na
may maliliit na lupain. Ang mga Kristiyanong nahalo, katulad namin, ay mga
settlers na bumili ng lupain mula sa mga datu. Sa kabundukan naroon ang mga
Bilaan. Noon pa man, nakikita ko na ang katotohanang sa mga pook na pyudal–
labis-labis ang kahirapan. Marami akong kababata at kaibigang Muslim. Sa
panahong nag-aaral kami sa elementarya, sa paaralang itinayo ng aking mga
magulang, marami sa aking mga kababatang Muslim ang pumapasok na wala
man lang tsinelas o sapatos. Kasama na ang kawalan ng maayos na pananamit. At
kawalan din ng makain o ng tamang pagkain. Marami rin akong kababatang
Kristiyanong ganito ang kalagayan. Bagamat napansin ko noon pa man ang
kaibahan ng mahirap na Muslim at mahirap na Kristiyano. Ang mahirap na
Kristiyano, ilang panahon lang ay umaayos ang buhay dahil nagkakaroon sila ng
pagkakataong baguhin ang kanilang kalagayan kapag nagkakaroon na sila ng
lupain. Samantalang ang mga mahihirap na Muslim ay tila nananatili sa kanilang
kalagayan. Nakita ko ang ugat ng suliraning ito—wala silang lupain o walang
pagkakataong magkaroon ng lupain. Migrasyon ang naging solusyon ng ilan.
Gaya ng maraming mamamayan, pagpunta sa mga kalunsuran at ibang bansa ang
kasagutan.

Dialektikal

Kung pag-aaralan ang mga isyung tinatalakay hinggil sa suliranin sa Mindanao,
mula pa noong panahon ni Marcos hanggang ngayong panahon ni Aroyo,
kapuna-punang hindi man lang natatalakay ang pyudal na sistemang ito.
Iniiwasan ba ito? O sadyang hindi nila napapansin. Kung iniiwasan ito, lalong
walang pupuntahan ang mga diskurso dahil isa itong katotohanan na dapat
harapin. At kung hindi napapansin, malaking katanungan ang katapatan ng mga
nasasangkot—mga tao ng gobyerno, komunidad at ng MILF.

Kung diskurso ng emansipasyon ng mga mamamayang Muslim sa Mindanao ang
usapin, marahil pinakamalaking isyu ang pyudalismo.
Ito ang malaking katanungan na dapat iharap sa mga nasasangkot, sa komunidad
ng mga Muslim, sa MILF at gobyerno:

Kaya bang buwagin o wasakin ang sistemang Datu?

Sa dialektikal na aplikasyon, narito ang sagot dito:

Buwagin at wasakin ang sistemang Datu.

Kung may pagbabagong dapat maganap sa pook ng mga Muslim sa Mindanao, ito
ang isa sa mga unang hakbang. Kung may rebolusyong dapat maganap sa pook
ng mga Muslim sa Mindanao, ito ang isa sa mga dapat gawin. Harapin na ang
katotohanang ito. Itigil na ang mga pseudo-intelektuwal at pseudo-political na
sirkus ng mga diskurso. Pseudo-intelektuwal ang karamihan ng diskurso dahil
masalimuot o wala namang katalinuhan ang inihahain nilang mga retorika at
resolusyon. Pseudo-political ang karamihan ng diskurso dahil hindi naman
nasasangkot ang kamalayan ng nakararami at lihis sa katotohanan ang mga
retorika at agenda ng mga partidong nasasangkot.

At kung iaangat natin sa antas ng macro-political ang isyu ng pyudalismo, ito rin
ang pundamental na suliranin ng kabuuan ng Pilipinas mula’t mula pa.
Ang totoong rebolusyon sa bayang ito ay ang emansipasyon ng mamamayan sa
kahirapan. At pagwasak ng pyudalismo ang isa sa mga pinakamalalaking
hakbang patungo rito.

Ang rebolusyong kultural naman ng sining ay dapat tumugon sa pagwasak sa
kamangmangan ng nakararami sa mga pundamental na isyung kinasasangkutan
ng kanilang kalagayan, at ng kalagayan ng bayan. Responsibilidad mula sa mga
alagad ng sining ang hinihingi ng pahanon para makapag-ambag sa pagpapalaya
sa kamalayan ng bayan. Dito nasasaad ang pananaw ng bagong cinema. Ito ang
aking tugon sa eksibisyung Designing Peace: The Role of Imagination in
Conflict Resolution.

Note: Palalawakin ang mga isyung ito sa susunod na pagtalakay natin ng konsepto ng ilang bahagi ng Mindanao bilang isang Bangsa Moro, ng konsepto ng Pilipinas bilang isang bayan ng mga Pilipino, ng konsepto ng demokrasya sa Pilipinas, ng konsepto ng Pilipino bilang isang nasyon. May Bangsa Moro nga ba? May bayang Pilipino nga ba? May tinatawag na bang nasyon ng Pilipino? May tamang pangunawa ba tayo sa tamang kahulugan ng pulitika, ng demokrasya? Bakit kulang sa dialektikal na pananaw ang mga diskurso?


Written by Lav Diaz as a rationale to his participation to the La Salle University installation, Designing Peace: The Role of Imagination in Conflict Resolution

When Lav Met Guy

By Bayani San Diego Jr.

Talk of this film uniting two superstars of Philippine cinema, Nora Aunor and Lav Diaz, is making the rounds in blogs.

Diaz confirmed this with Inquirer Entertainment, saying the movie, “Reclusion Perpetua,” has been in the works for the past three years.

(Aunor is also set to shoot “Do Filipinos Cry in America?” next year, according to its director, Celso Ad. Castillo.)

Diaz finally met with Aunor recently in Santa Monica, California.

“I went to see Nora,” Diaz explained, “to see how committed she was to the project. We talked at length about it.”

Diaz liked what he saw and heard: “She’s committed.”

He calls it a “collective” effort: “Her fans are raising money. If we meet the target, we’ll be shooting soon.”

Meanwhile, Diaz is off to the Thessaloniki film fest in Greece, where he’s a jury member and where his latest short, “Butterflies Have No Memories,” will be featured in a retrospective on Pinoy indies.

Then, “Butterflies” and his Venice-winning feature, “Melancholia,” will be screened in Warsaw.

Diaz received the Indie Spirit award in the just-concluded Cinemanila fest.

What was the meeting with Nora like?

It was cool. She was in jeans and rubber shoes, no makeup. The sun was shining so bright that day, but a cool breeze, like Baguio’s, was hovering. We had a late lunch and a few beers. We realized we were in LA’s gay district because we kept seeing men holding hands while strolling, and women lustily kissing. Nora joked, “Alam ko na ngayon kung saan pupunta (Now, I know where to go).”

What is “Reclusion Perpetua” about?

Nora’s character is looking for her husband, who disappeared in the US.

Why is it important to you to make a film with Nora now?

It is a cultural issue for me. It is dialectical. Nora Aunor is a Filipino icon, arguably our greatest actress. So, on the level of cultural discourse, she is very much a part of our struggle. I am not a fan ... though my mother is a fanatic. As a cultural worker, I acknowledge her importance.

Why is it important for today’s audiences to see her act again?

Any respectable Nora Aunor film can be used to educate our people. This is my responsibility, to use the medium to create a greater aesthetic and socio-cultural discourse for our people. The most potent modern medium now is cinema. Why not use an incredibly potent icon in the process?

I am using the term “use,” or “paggamit” in Tagalog, in a very dialectical way. That answers the need for a Nora Aunor film. I am not doing a propaganda film, though, not a Nora rah-rah movie. The film’s core shall remain aesthetic. This is still free cinema. It can run 40 hours.

Why is it described as a collective effort?

Everybody is working almost pro bono. Her responsible fans are doing patak-patak (passing the hat). We will work on people’s donations. I am actually announcing it now: We need help! The objective is greater cinema, not profit. Should money come later, it would just be consequential.

How do you know Nora?

In Cotabato, as a kid, I experienced the phenomenon. It was crazy. My mom had some of her records at home.

The screenings of Nora Aunor movies were out of this world. You can actually see truckloads of people arriving in front of movie houses—people from the barrios. They’d be bringing kalderos and platos.

Every time Nora appeared onscreen, there would be screaming, wailing, shrieking. Some would faint. You couldn’t breathe or move. It wasn’t just standing room; it was bumper-to-bumper, sweat-to-sweat, laway-to-laway, bahala na kung mamatay (spit-to-spit, who cares if we die).

What are your favorite Nora Aunor movies?

I love Ishmael Bernal’s “Himala.” She’s also great in Mario O’Hara’s “Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos.”

What’s the latest on your other projects?

“Babae ng Hangin” is still evolving, yet again. I am following new threads to finish it. I submitted a more than three-hour rough cut to Venice but some problems ensued, so I pulled it out. But I’m really thankful that it happened, as I now have a clearer view of how to finish the film in the aesthetic realm.

The Gregoria de Jesus project remains a work in progress. I tried to do some test and pre-production, but I just couldn’t push it properly. The hardest part is finding the right Gregoria de Jesus.

I am also making this call to the brave ones: If you think you can be the great Oryang, please submit your résumé and tell us why. Marami pang karakter na puwede sa lahat (There are other characters for everyone else), if they know the story of the Philippine Revolution.

What’s your take on the retro on Filipino films in the Thessaloniki fest in Greece?

It’s good for RP cinema. They can’t just dismiss us now.

What should Filipino filmmakers do to sustain this international interest?

Just keep working hard, but not so much because of vanity. Everyone wants to be a rock star ... but there’s more to be done in the aesthetic domain. If we really want a revolution, we must work harder and dig deeper. The real revolution that can save our devastated culture is a battle to destroy ignorance and apathy. This issue is a cultural struggle. Let’s examine our history as a people. Why is our culture so dysfunctional? Let’s examine the past and present.

Just ask the obvious questions: How could we have allowed more than 300 years of Spanish rule ... almost 100 years of American imperialism ... 20 years of Marcos dictatorship ... nine years of Macapagal-Arroyo?

With the advent of digital technology, how has filmmaking changed for Filipinos in the last five years?

The last five years have been a watershed. It created greater dynamism on the part of practitioners. Emancipation of the process was delivered by the digital age. We’ve finally destroyed feudalism in cinema. That alone is a huge leap. Greater freedom could hopefully lead to more visionary works. But let us be careful and cautious, because with greater freedom comes greater responsibility.

From the Philippine Daily Inquirer, October 25, 2009

Melancholia

By Francis Cruz

"Diaz's eight-hour meditation on the persistence and immobility of sadness is painful and, paradoxically, exhilarating to watch. Painful because we know of the military persecution of leftist and progressive groups in the Philippines, ongoing even unto this day; exhilarating because Diaz, above all Filipino film-makers still active, illuminates recent Philippine history with lighting bolt of his imagination."
-- Noel Vera

Lav Diaz's Melancholia is an eight-hour meditation of sorts on the maddening persistence of sadness in this world, can logically be divided into three parts and an epilogue. The first part details the experiences in Sagada of Julian (Perry Dizon), Alberta (Angeli Bayani) and Rina (Malaya Cruz) as they refashion themselves into different drastic identities as part of the radical process that Julian created in order for them to cope with the losses of their loved ones. The second part is set in Manila, with Julian and Alberta living their real lives and addressing the scenarios and situations that accompany their melancholic predicament. The third part is the prologue to Julian, Alberta and Rina's prolonged tale of sadness, where deep within the forests of Mindoro, a band of leftist fighters, which includes Alberta's husband Renato (Roeder Camanag), is struggling with the psychological and spiritual torture of both practical and existential defeat while being hunted down by military operatives.

Melancholia is most probably Diaz's most difficult film for the lone reason that Diaz affords little or no comfort to his viewers. There is very little humor to the film and the story, grounded by philosophies and ideas that might be too personal or hard to grasp, branches into different and sometimes convoluted directions. However, as with most of Diaz's films, the reward of completing one is not in the pleasure of sitting through eight hours of his trademark black and white aesthetics and seemingly endless ramblings and conversations, but in the lingering and often valid points that Diaz would have you digesting and exploring for a far longer period of time.

I. Transformations and Transgressions in Sagada

Alberta becomes Jenine, a prostitute who does massages for 300 pesos and other services for more. Julian turns into a pimp who for the right price can stage live sex shows within the privacy of a hotel room. Rina is a Catholic nun who wanders around town with her charity basket, begging for money for charity. They would bump into each other on occasions: with Jenine handily getting some change to put into the nun's charity basket before fleeting away to her destination, or the pimp taking photographs of the nun before mouthing slogans about the futility of living in a country and a world that is practically hell, or Jenine being courted by the pimp to do business for him. In Sagada, they do not know each other. Though in reality, they are all survivors who have subscribed to the extremist idea that in order to cope with the fact of having a loved one disappear and be presumed dead, they should shed their identities and see the world through the eyes of another.

The three would eventually meet at the same time as the three of them seek shelter from the rain inside an abandoned building in the middle of the town. The line that separates truth and fiction are blurred, as Jenine and the pimp recount their respective histories as if the personalities they inhabited are real. It may be argued that fictionalizing one's life story may be an easy feat. However, it is the disturbing direction of their conversation when the nun arrives in the abandoned building that gives the prolonged scene a harrowing distinction. The pimp starts cornering the nun, berating her of the futility of her efforts within the spectrum of evil that has consumed the world. In the background, Jenine is amused at the lopsided confrontation, wherein the nun coyly mutters meaningless quotes while the pimp expounds on the the world's state of hopelessness. Defeated, the nun escapes the scene as the two admitted sinners rejoice in their triumph.

The nun is the only one to surrender and give up. It seems that in a world that has been enveloped by sadness, it is the meek, and pure that fall first as victims. In Rina's transformation as a nun, she has seen the world from the vantage point of innocence, and the continuing acts of evildoing, apathy, and madness may have dealt upon her despair and hopelessness. Her transformation seems easiest as compared to being a whore or a pimp, since it seems less taxing to roam the streets begging for alms. However, the transgression in her existence, upon seeing the state of the world through the eyes of a person who was tasked to save it or at least ease its pain and being unable to do anything, is far more damaging. Her transformation deviates the most from the world. Her assumed identity is an aberration, especially in a landscape that has forgotten virtues.

Diaz posits an intriguing concept: that survival is earned by those who swear allegiance with truth, and truth is what we see in this world: melancholia, death, amorality, and atheism. There is truth in sex, the way the pimp's sex performers copulate in the total absence of love, hate, or any other emotion. There is truth in prostitution, the way our bodies have turned into mere commodities and stripped of any religion-labeled value. The nun, at one point of the segment, visits a widowed mother she had the opportunity to converse with while begging for alms. Inside the church, the mother sings a melody while the nun observes in the background before leaving. Outside, she walks away, answers her phone and tells her friend that she is okay. During that moment, upon being exposed the utter futility of faith, she finds a semblance of comfort, although temporary since later, she would take her own life in a final act of despair.

II. Patricia's Song

Diaz forwards the story further, detailing the lives of Julian and Alberta weeks after their stints as pimp and whore, respectively, in Sagada. Julian is a publisher in Manila who often dreams of her dead wife Patricia (Cooky Chua). Alberta, on the other hand, is a school principal who while coping with the disappearance of her husband, has to take care of her ward Hannah (Yanyan Taa), a teenager who was rendered parentless when both her parents were abducted and killed by government officials. Hannah, to address her situation, repels Alberta's acts of kindness by repeatedly escaping from her protection and prostituting herself.

Julian chats with an old friend (Bodjie Pascua), an author who pitches his manuscript for publication. In their conversation about the story of Julian's friend's book, Diaz expounds his passion for cinema, correlating his philosophies on truth with art. According to the friend (whose language is not dissimilar to Diaz's), our basic concept of Philippine cinema has been grounded on lies and escapism. The only way to dispel this harmful imposition against culture is through a drastic change, fueled by pain and passion as the main character of the book, a famed director who after losing his lover, reforms into a producer of independent films while acknowledging his homosexuality, has gone through.

In Julian's dream, Patricia sings of her endless search against the backdrop of coldness and pain in the world. The song sets the mood and tone of the film. In a sense, the song summarizes the characters' need to search: for their lost loved ones, for a reason behind the sadness and the madness of the world, an impossible happiness or contentment, for Hannah, for truth. Melancholia's landscape is familiar (city streets, humble abodes, riverside parks), but its characters are placed in a situation where they have turned into desperate searchers, fueled at first by grief and longing and then by some other force or motivation that is as elusive as their targets. The repercussions of their exercise in Sagada are faint (although Rina's suicide becomes the trigger of Julian's deep contemplation) if not damaging as opposed to being the cure to their collective sadness. Even the discovery of the remains of some victims of political killings failed to release them from their collective burdens. In the end, they are still looking for sense and direction and all at once, the familiar places start to look like alien landscapes, enunciated by the violence of the rain or the discomfort of the night. These places convert into limbo.

This persistent searching is true to the theme of Diaz's cinema, which would often allude to some kind of redemption or release in the conclusion, whether it be in the form of Juan Mijares' acceptance of his and his nation's past in Batang West Side (West Side Avenue, 2001), or the wayward oxcart-driver's deal with God in Heremias (2006), or Hamin's release from the world's madness through death in Kagadanan sa Banwaan Ning Mga Engkanto (Death in the Land of Encantos, 2007). However, in Melancholia, the characters are trapped in limbo (in fact, an offshoot of Melancholia which makes use of some footage made for the film is aptly entitled Purgatorio (2008), referring to the eternal state of being neither here or there of the family left behind by the victims of political killings) and are seemingly in a directionless search for something that can never be found.

III. No Redemption for the Poet-Warrior

Renato writes in his diary "Why is there so much sadness and too much sorrow in this world? Is happiness just a concept? Is living just a process to measure man's pain? Are we ever going to see each other again? I'm not afraid of death. I'm more afraid that I won't see you again.'" Renato, a leftist activist who left his wife to fight a war of principles, is now being chased into the forest by military operatives who want him and his comrades silenced.

Diaz painstakingly details the final few days of this band of men who are merely prolonging their assured demise under their enemies. Some of them start to falter, giving way to insanity and defeat, enveloped by the lurking senselessness of their struggle amidst a world drowned by indifference and apathy. He writes further "I now realized the lyrical madness to this struggle. It is all about sadness. It is about my sadness. It is about the sorrow of my people. I cannot romanticize the futility of it all. Even the majestic beauty of this island could not provide an answer to this hell. There is no cure to this sadness."

Renato writes words of despair. Strangled by his impending capture and death, he starts to rationalize the bitter truth that beneath the illusions and promises dealt by momentous beauty, emotions, and moments of fleeting happiness, is a world that is barren and replete of hope. His and his comrades' deaths come swiftly in a moment where one of them, in an act of desperation, expresses surrender. Their deaths did not release them from purgatory. Instead, as we have learned from the film's previous scenes in Sagada and Manila, their deaths are black holes that pull loved ones into a void, a metaphoric limbo where they undergo futile searches for logic and reason, goals that have been rendered implausible by the realities of pain and suffering in this world .

The sequence in the forest does not provide redemption for Alberta either. She still does not know where her husband's remains were left. She has not read the words Renato has written in his diary. All she knows is that her husband is gone and most probably dead. There is yet no closure for the victims, only closure in Diaz's circle of melancholia, where the man-made, or more accurately, governmental act of depravity and cowardice has caused the never-ending cycle of sadness and madness to begin.

IV. Epilogue

The riverside park at nighttime, dimly lit by streetlamps that scarcely dot the walkpath, serves as Diaz's stage for his confounding finale. Alberta searches for Julian among the men and women (performance artists who contort their bodies into unusual shapes and positions) that populate the park's spaces. Cryptic phrases, recited in hypnotic cadence, are thrown in reply to Alberta's fervent questioning. She finally locates Julian, alone and seated in the dark, dissheveled in appearance and obviously in the same trance-like state of the park's curious residents. From Alberta and Julian's conversation, we can glean that Julian has turned into a monster, consumed by his own search for the truth, eaten up by the pain and sadness that he has tried to cope with, and ironically, embraced it to create. Julian has become God, the personification of the melancholy and insanity of the world, the only things that can be labeled as definite truths in a world that deceives us with illusions of joy and beauty. He walks away, claiming that he is no longer Julian. Alberta is left alone.

Although the film can be seen as Diaz's definitive statement (and it probably is, Diaz being very vocal on politics) on the desaparecidos, the numbers of which have risen during Macapagal-Arroyo's term as president, and the families they have left in stasis, there is definitely something deeper: a philosophical or existential query that Diaz throws to his viewers on the basis of the world's current status. Melancholia aims to expound on truth by distorting it (where Julian, Alberta and Rina assume fake identities in Sagada as coping mechanism to battle their sadness), disrespecting it (where the trio start living and believing their assumed identities), mutating it (where the trio can no longer discern the line that divides reality and illusion), and finally, spiting it (where truth, as personified by Julian, shows itself as pitiful and pathetic).

From the blog Lessons From The School of Inattention

Agonistes (work-in-progress)

By Northern Portrait

The ancient Greeks invented and defined the term apropos of our everyday fate. Agony. Ours is one born out of a myriad of cataclysms – both natural and auto-inflicted. Lav Diaz’s Agonistes, an admitted work-in-progress but already fully formed, meditates on the Filipino’s most pressing worldly struggle, his struggle to break out of material poverty and the non-material consequences of poverty. Hints, however, point to a more eschatological theme – the centrality or the simultaneity of the spiritual struggle.

Directing from his own script, Diaz transposes the ancient term agonistes to latter-day Philippines. He singles out the classic strugglers of contemporary times, the working-class men and the peasants, to shoulder grinding poverty. In truth, it can be said that the agonist has been a favorite fixture of Diaz’s other films: Heremias is both agonized and anguished, so is Hamin in Death in the Land of Encantos, tortured and demented at once. Epic but individual in scope, mythological and biblical in character, Diaz’s stories are veritable stories of struggles, sagas of agony.

Agonistes opens with a grandiose sequence of robust buildings under construction in Manila. This is the magnificence that, on a sudden, contrasts with the slumped figure of one construction worker, a young man named Juan. As he narrates what he has witnessed to Manoling, an older, brotherly fellow worker, he has been traumatized by the sight of one of his co-workers being buried alive in wet concrete at the construction site. But the occupational dangers are not the end of it – the rainy season soon floods the metropolis and makes it impossible for them to reach their workplace.

These two become so desperate that, over a drinking session, they latch on to a kind of Pascalian wager. Manoling has revealed a secret of treasure supposed to be buried in his family’s land somewhere in Bikol. If they find it, they are set for life. If not, it’s just a matter of a few days’ work and a matter of looking a little silly, perhaps. They aren’t even thinking of that: Manoling is just “tired” of the daily grind.

Quitting their jobs, they emerge in Bikol one day, purchase digging equipment and get to work. They meet Manoling’s brother who farms the land but whose wife Loleng is terminally ill with a lung disease. As the trenches deepen, Juan and Manoling only manage to turn up rusty metals and an old military boot. Manoling’s brother seems content to live a farmer’s life and jokes in the background about a share of the spoils. At dusk, all of them often – including the bed-ridden Loleng -- gather to watch the magnificent – otherworldly? – sunset.

Agonistes is a miserabilist ode to materialism – or an oblique one to spiritual “reorienting.” Or perhaps, their unresolved dialectic. As the almost Syssiphian diggings go on, the crash and crunch of shovels against sand and gravel alternate with the sound of Loleng’s deathly and fatal coughing. As Juan and Manoling pursue their treasurely dreams, they seem oblivious to the specter of death, the possibility of afterlife. Like a colossal god, Mayon Volcano towers in the background to shame their pointless efforts. The Pascalian wager of the search for treasure can thus be read as an allegory on misplaced faith itself, the pursuit of false gods.

Even in this rough cut, Agonistes holds up as an excellent film. The layers of meaning are already robust. The simplistic notion, for instance, of the materialistic agonist (represented by Juan and Manoling) is elevated by the presence of other kinds of agonists: Loleng, the terminally ill agonist whose struggle is physical illness and presumably coming to terms with her faith; and Manoling’s brother, outwardly content, but something else deep down.

It’s a world of lingering shadows, and Diaz complements his classic themes with black and white cinematography. It serves him well again – appropriately eerie and reminiscent, among others, of the work of Bela Tarr. Diaz’s compositions are painterly -- he must have studied classic portraiture in preparation for this -- which reinforces the timelessness and universality of his themes, whether it is a reckoning of the ills of the contemporary Filipino or not. Diaz’s work will transcend the borders of time and space and nationality, our agony aunt for all time.

From the blog the persistence of vision, October 26, 2009