Ni Rolando Tolentino
MANILA — Sa mga rebyu ng Melancholia, laging dinidiin ang kalungkutan na pumapaimbalot sa mga buhay ng tauhan, ng produksyon ng sining at katotohanan sa gitna ng matinding politikal na panunupil ng komersyal na cinema (negosyo) at ng gobyerno. Ang huling dalawa ang bumubuo ng estado ng bansa, ang black hole na humihigop sa lahat ng mga anak at mamamayan nito sa pagdalumat sa kolektibo at individual na buhay bilang kalungkutan.
Tatlo ang pangunahing seksyon ng Melancholia: ang una, sa Sagada, magtatagpo ang isang madre, bugaw at puta na pinag-ugnay ng nakaraan bilang naiwan ng politikal na pinaslang o inaasahang patay na; ang ikalawa, sa Maynila, ang bugaw ay naging publisher, ang puta naging prinsipal ng eskwelahan; at panghuli, sa gubat sa Mindoro, isang rebolusyonaryo, asawa ng puta sa una, ang mamamatay sa digmaan. May epilogo, ang paghahanap ng balo ng rebolusyonaryo sa kadiliman ng parke sa syudad.
Melancholia ang pakiwari sa panonood ng pelikula. Ang melancholia ay isang mental state, ng hindi lubos na pag-usad dahil nabalaho sa isang bagay (tao o pangyayari) na hindi makalimutan, ayaw ilibing ang patay. Kung gayon, melancholic ang Melancholia, mayroon itong hindi inililibing sa kolektibong kamalayan ng mga tauhan nito.
Paano maglibing ng isang desaparecidos? Walang bangkay pero hindi matuldukan ang pagkawala? Na ang bawat pangungulila ay paggunita sa kapasidad ng pag-alaala, na siyang binubura ng pagdanas ng politikal na pagpaslang o pandurukot ng estado sa mga aktibista at rebolusyonaryo nito? Ito ang kapasidad na makapaglikha ng alternatibong imahinaryo, kaya iniimpit ng estado ng nakaraan at kasalukuyan.
O ang mismong rebolusyonaryong proyektong nagbibigay ng radikal na lagusan sa lahat ng ito? Sinasaad ng pelikula, ang gitnang uring kalungkutan ng individual at kolektibo sa pakikibaka ang bumabalaho sa posibilidad ng pag-ungos ng rebolusyonaryong pakikibaka. Ito o ang sikliko ng panunupil ng mga nanunungkulan sa gobyerno at interes ng negosyong higit na nakakapagtiyak ng kolektibong kalungkutan para sa dinudustang nakararami.
Ang proyekto ng Melancholia ay hindi ilibing ang patay. Ibuyanyang ito sa pamamagitan ng pagdanas ng epekto sa mga naiwang buhay, kung paano ito ay sustenidong pamana ng dekada at siglo ng panunupil ng estado. Tulad ng mga naunang pelikula ni Lav Diaz, polemikal ang paglalahad ng naratibo bilang bahagi ng mas malaking diskurso at pagninilay-nilay sa sining at politika.
Hindi kayang palitan ng identidad at lunan ang batayang pagkatao na dumadanas ng kalungkutan ng estado. Ito ang malawakang panahon at malalimang kasaysayang nagbibigay-epekto sa kolektibong pagkatao. Dala-dala ng mga tauhan, sa kaibuturan ng kanilang pagkatao, ang kolektibong kalungkutan ng estado. At ito ang malawakang self-reflexivity na undertaking ng mga pelikula ni Diaz: ang ating pinapanood (ang pelikula) ay ang dating na may sumpang hindi kailanman mapagpag-pagpag (ang mismong melancholia).
Hindi pagtunghay sa kalungkutan ang proyekto ng Melancholia. Kung ito, di sana ay nalungkot tayo sa panonood ng pito at kalahating oras na pelikula. Ito ang kanyang polemiko. Ang tinutunghayan natin ay ang filmikong produksyon ng melancholia ng mga tauhan bilang bukal ng identifikasyon sa melancholia ng manonood at mamamayan—na ang sinisiwalat na “katotohanan” sa pelikula ay ang referensiya sa historikal na katotohanan ng mamamayan.
Nananatiling natatangi ang mga pelikula ni Diaz dahil ginagawang kasiya-siya ang politikal bilang lagusan ng kontra-politikang kasiyahan laban sa estado ng gobyerno at negosyo. Sa kulturang popular ng malling, Facebook, 24/7 na estabilisymento para sa libo-libong call center agents sa bansa, nilulusaw ng estado ang politikal sa individual. Sa ritwalisasyon at rehimentasyon ng buhay, tinatanggap na lamang ang kalungkutan bilang batayan ng konsumpsyon at kasiyahan.
Na ang ibinubuyanyang na hibla sa Melancholia ay nasa rebolusyon ang katotohanan: figuratibo at literal na pakikipagdigma. Kung wala itong paninidigan, walang katotohanan sa sining at politikal, na gaya ng formulasyon ng pelikula, walang katotohanan maliban sa karanasan sa kalungkutan. Naghahanap lang tayo ng multong hindi mailibing sa kadiliman at kalawakan ng parke, mall, Internet at iba pang sityo ng dustang buhay.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Melancholia: Philippine cinema as meditation and metaphysics
By Lito B. Zulueta
Lav Diaz’s Melancholia provides a sweeping fillip and summing-up to the aesthetics he has stubbornly maintained and that has always baffled audiences. A mordant movie that is part pastorale, part meditation, and part social commentary, there is no other film like it, except for the previous movies he has done— sweeping narrative movies that seem determined to break the standard idea of a regular feature movie that’s all but told in just 90 minutes more or less.
But unlike in his previous movies where the narrative seems a recasting of the picaresque, Melancholia, Diaz dispenses with the narrative trajectory altogether, leaving the viewer on tenterhooks but still with a modicum of familiarity with its most basic story line revolving around three characters—a hooker, a pimp and a nun. All of them seem wounded by grief over the deaths of communist rebel friends who had been dashed and killed either by the insurgency conflict or by natural calamity. Everyone is held by the memory of death and destruction.
All of eight hours, Melancholia is an extended mining of memories and insights, the masochism of the exercise somehow alleviated by the contemplative mood and the sprawling bucolic romp that’s vintage Lav Diaz iconology. Some among the viewers may impatiently complain that Diaz should have shown rather than told, but the aesthetic he has mastered along this line shirks any postcard-pretty representation: if there’s any image-making here, it is more of an evocation, the tracing of an aura that hovers between reality and unreality.
After all, how does one really deal with pain and suffering? If violence and death are as perennial as the grass—as unerringly present in the evergreen forests as they are a regular in the headlines of metropolitan newspapers—how does one cope with them? In the world of Lav Diaz, death is no respecter of geographies or political causes: one meets it in both the urban jungle and the rural sprawl, one dies because of a calamity of nature or a calamity of conflict, and those left behind are left with the destiny of grasping and groping for meaning in the midst of the utter meaninglessness of it all. Melancholia is not a mood, it’s a movie of meaning and worth; it’s a cinema of powerful signification.
Lav Diaz’s Melancholia provides a sweeping fillip and summing-up to the aesthetics he has stubbornly maintained and that has always baffled audiences. A mordant movie that is part pastorale, part meditation, and part social commentary, there is no other film like it, except for the previous movies he has done— sweeping narrative movies that seem determined to break the standard idea of a regular feature movie that’s all but told in just 90 minutes more or less.
But unlike in his previous movies where the narrative seems a recasting of the picaresque, Melancholia, Diaz dispenses with the narrative trajectory altogether, leaving the viewer on tenterhooks but still with a modicum of familiarity with its most basic story line revolving around three characters—a hooker, a pimp and a nun. All of them seem wounded by grief over the deaths of communist rebel friends who had been dashed and killed either by the insurgency conflict or by natural calamity. Everyone is held by the memory of death and destruction.
All of eight hours, Melancholia is an extended mining of memories and insights, the masochism of the exercise somehow alleviated by the contemplative mood and the sprawling bucolic romp that’s vintage Lav Diaz iconology. Some among the viewers may impatiently complain that Diaz should have shown rather than told, but the aesthetic he has mastered along this line shirks any postcard-pretty representation: if there’s any image-making here, it is more of an evocation, the tracing of an aura that hovers between reality and unreality.
After all, how does one really deal with pain and suffering? If violence and death are as perennial as the grass—as unerringly present in the evergreen forests as they are a regular in the headlines of metropolitan newspapers—how does one cope with them? In the world of Lav Diaz, death is no respecter of geographies or political causes: one meets it in both the urban jungle and the rural sprawl, one dies because of a calamity of nature or a calamity of conflict, and those left behind are left with the destiny of grasping and groping for meaning in the midst of the utter meaninglessness of it all. Melancholia is not a mood, it’s a movie of meaning and worth; it’s a cinema of powerful signification.
A Speech for the 8th Italian Film Festival
By Lav Diaz
This piece will not be long. I timed it. It shall be just two minutes.
Okay, it will be a little bit longer. I am writing this piece in a very organic way, no apologies-stream of consciousness manner. This is free cinema.
I hate speeches to be very honest. Besides an incurable stage freight, I would rather much prefer to just play guitar with my back behind the crowd or be behind the camera than talk in front of people who would just be hearing another fool’s hyperbole and self-important chatter.
I received this request to deliver a speech here as a guest of honor.
What on earth is a guest of honor? Have you checked my background? The Board of Censors here in the Philippines banned my films, my two films that won at the Orizzonti of the Venice Film Festival. There’s nudity and sex, they said. Without proper critical viewing of my films by the honorable members of the Board of Censors, they deemed the films not appropriate for viewing here in their country of origin. They banned other works, too. And lately, they have been encroaching on the freedom of venues like the Adarna Theatre of the University of the Philippines. Benito Mussolini must be very proud.
I’ll say it again. Censorship is poison to cinema. Censorship is poison to the arts. Censorship is poison to culture. Censorship is a very feudal act. It is fascism.
The invitation also says that I should talk about my Venice experience. So, here’s a piece from a Filipino independent pornography filmmaker.
First, I would like to congratulate the 8th edition of the Italian Film Festival here in our beloved battered Philippines.
The Venice Film Festival or the Mostra Internazionale d'Arte Cinematografica di Venezia is the Mother of film festivals. It is the oldest film festival in the world. This tradition of mounting film festivals had its beginning in Venice, Italy in 1932. In 1952, the first Filipino film to compete, Manuel Conde’s Genghis Khan, exhibited in Venice. In 1985, Mike de Leon’s Sister Stella L. was shown at the festival. And in 2007, my film Death in the Land of Encantos competed and won Special Mention at the Orizzonti section of the festival. The following year, in 2008, my film Melancholia, competed in the same section and won the Orizzonti Prize. This year, Briliante Mendoza’s Lola was a Philippine entry at the Main Competition and Pepe Diokno’s Engkwentro coveted two prizes, the Orizzonti Prize and the Luigi di Laurentii Lion of the Future Prize. Despite the dearth of our participation in the seventy six years existence of the Mostra, only six films to date, we have had a very triumphant and respectable run. Long live, Philippine cinema, indeed! And I would like to point out that despite the absence of state support in our cultural struggle, in the state’s sheer ignorance on the very important role of the arts in educating our people, cultural workers, especially artists and activists, persevere in pursuing greater discourse and praxis in this vast wasteland called the Philippines.
A Venice attendance is every filmmaker’s dream. If you are into aesthetic exercise, world cinema offers a load of great and incendiary works. And if you have celebrity skin, Hollywood’s killer vanity and fashion’s hallucinatory sheen is just everywhere. You can check the stately hotel where Thomas Mann wrote Death in Venice. A walk in Venice is a time machine ride with its old structures, art centers and canals. A boat ride is a rock ‘n roll experience.
More than the festivities and the city, Italy gave the world its great cinema culture. Roberto Rossellini, Michaelangelo Antonioni, Federico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Vittorio de Sica, Ermanno Olmi, Bernardo Bertolucci, Sergio Leone. That venerable list is continued by modern auteurs like Gianni Amelio, Giuseppe Tornatore, Marco Bellocchio, Paolo Sorrentino, Gabriele Salvatores and a lot more.
Italian cinema has given us many of the greatest models and paradigms--Open City, Paisan, Stromboli, L’Avventura, La Notte, L’eclisse, The Leopard, The Gospel According to St. Matthew, 8 ½, La Dolce Vita, Umberto D., Bicycle Thief, The Conformist, The Tree of Wooden Clogs, L’America. These works are incomparable masterpeices. These works set the standard by which the greater aesthetic discourse in cinema will continue to be measured upon till cinema is not dead. Yes, cinema will not die. We have Italian Cinema. Cinema will not die, we have Philippine cinema.
In one interview, Antonioni said: "I would not want to say. Or perhaps I do not know."
And I want to say this, allow me please: “Fuck profit motive in cinema!”
We just hope that this year’s edition will measure up to the greater tradition of cinema.
I will forever honor the memory of the great martyr, Alexis Tioseco… for the struggle toward a greater Philippine Cinema. Nika Bohinc will forever be in our hearts.
Again, mabuhay to the 8th year of the Italian Film Festival.
Salamat po.
(Read by Angeli Bayani, lead actress of Death in the Land of Encantos and Melancholia, during the Opening Ceremonies of the 8th Italian Film Festival in Manila, October 14, 2009)
This piece will not be long. I timed it. It shall be just two minutes.
Okay, it will be a little bit longer. I am writing this piece in a very organic way, no apologies-stream of consciousness manner. This is free cinema.
I hate speeches to be very honest. Besides an incurable stage freight, I would rather much prefer to just play guitar with my back behind the crowd or be behind the camera than talk in front of people who would just be hearing another fool’s hyperbole and self-important chatter.
I received this request to deliver a speech here as a guest of honor.
What on earth is a guest of honor? Have you checked my background? The Board of Censors here in the Philippines banned my films, my two films that won at the Orizzonti of the Venice Film Festival. There’s nudity and sex, they said. Without proper critical viewing of my films by the honorable members of the Board of Censors, they deemed the films not appropriate for viewing here in their country of origin. They banned other works, too. And lately, they have been encroaching on the freedom of venues like the Adarna Theatre of the University of the Philippines. Benito Mussolini must be very proud.
I’ll say it again. Censorship is poison to cinema. Censorship is poison to the arts. Censorship is poison to culture. Censorship is a very feudal act. It is fascism.
The invitation also says that I should talk about my Venice experience. So, here’s a piece from a Filipino independent pornography filmmaker.
First, I would like to congratulate the 8th edition of the Italian Film Festival here in our beloved battered Philippines.
The Venice Film Festival or the Mostra Internazionale d'Arte Cinematografica di Venezia is the Mother of film festivals. It is the oldest film festival in the world. This tradition of mounting film festivals had its beginning in Venice, Italy in 1932. In 1952, the first Filipino film to compete, Manuel Conde’s Genghis Khan, exhibited in Venice. In 1985, Mike de Leon’s Sister Stella L. was shown at the festival. And in 2007, my film Death in the Land of Encantos competed and won Special Mention at the Orizzonti section of the festival. The following year, in 2008, my film Melancholia, competed in the same section and won the Orizzonti Prize. This year, Briliante Mendoza’s Lola was a Philippine entry at the Main Competition and Pepe Diokno’s Engkwentro coveted two prizes, the Orizzonti Prize and the Luigi di Laurentii Lion of the Future Prize. Despite the dearth of our participation in the seventy six years existence of the Mostra, only six films to date, we have had a very triumphant and respectable run. Long live, Philippine cinema, indeed! And I would like to point out that despite the absence of state support in our cultural struggle, in the state’s sheer ignorance on the very important role of the arts in educating our people, cultural workers, especially artists and activists, persevere in pursuing greater discourse and praxis in this vast wasteland called the Philippines.
A Venice attendance is every filmmaker’s dream. If you are into aesthetic exercise, world cinema offers a load of great and incendiary works. And if you have celebrity skin, Hollywood’s killer vanity and fashion’s hallucinatory sheen is just everywhere. You can check the stately hotel where Thomas Mann wrote Death in Venice. A walk in Venice is a time machine ride with its old structures, art centers and canals. A boat ride is a rock ‘n roll experience.
More than the festivities and the city, Italy gave the world its great cinema culture. Roberto Rossellini, Michaelangelo Antonioni, Federico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Vittorio de Sica, Ermanno Olmi, Bernardo Bertolucci, Sergio Leone. That venerable list is continued by modern auteurs like Gianni Amelio, Giuseppe Tornatore, Marco Bellocchio, Paolo Sorrentino, Gabriele Salvatores and a lot more.
Italian cinema has given us many of the greatest models and paradigms--Open City, Paisan, Stromboli, L’Avventura, La Notte, L’eclisse, The Leopard, The Gospel According to St. Matthew, 8 ½, La Dolce Vita, Umberto D., Bicycle Thief, The Conformist, The Tree of Wooden Clogs, L’America. These works are incomparable masterpeices. These works set the standard by which the greater aesthetic discourse in cinema will continue to be measured upon till cinema is not dead. Yes, cinema will not die. We have Italian Cinema. Cinema will not die, we have Philippine cinema.
In one interview, Antonioni said: "I would not want to say. Or perhaps I do not know."
And I want to say this, allow me please: “Fuck profit motive in cinema!”
We just hope that this year’s edition will measure up to the greater tradition of cinema.
I will forever honor the memory of the great martyr, Alexis Tioseco… for the struggle toward a greater Philippine Cinema. Nika Bohinc will forever be in our hearts.
Again, mabuhay to the 8th year of the Italian Film Festival.
Salamat po.
(Read by Angeli Bayani, lead actress of Death in the Land of Encantos and Melancholia, during the Opening Ceremonies of the 8th Italian Film Festival in Manila, October 14, 2009)
Saturday, September 5, 2009
A River Runs Through It
By Alexis A. Tioseco
We walk a narrow dirt path lined randomly with fragmented rocks, working our way down to the point that runs parallel to a long river; a river that serves as a divide between the ground I walk on and the grassy terrain on side opposite. The landscape on this side rises up drastically: dirt, low-cost housing is being prepared on the main plain some twenty feet higher. Lav Diaz, sporting a worn back t-shirt, (which appears to have weathered many battles) and black jeans torn at the knees, his cinematographer (twenty-something Mara Benitez, daughter of a well-known underwater cinematographer) following suit, steps gingerly into the water. They cross to the midpoint in the narrow river, water reaching their ankles, their pants are rolled up just below the knees.
The soundman Bob Macabenta tests the levels of the DAT recording device (borrowed from cinematographer Neil Daza). There is loud noise coming from the construction going on in the main plain above us, and it dominates the audio. Rolly (the stout production manager), and Celso (the diligent AD and line producer), quiet the workers, asking that they halt their work briefly for the duration of the shot. They oblige, intrigued by what is going on, and watch intently the proceedings from their birds-eye position.
Bob sends Lav a thumb's up sign, signaling the sound is clear. Lav takes one more peek through the eyehole of the camera, a glance at the LCD display detailing the frame, then a final look at the river, whose water persists, tranquilly. He folds his arms in front of his chest, and in his typical crooked stance (he has muscle problems) yells out into the distance, “Action!”. The crew looks on, the construction workers are paused, watching, and I observe standing on the dirt road to the side of the river. We wait…
Since first watching the 5-hour “Batang West Side”, at its World Premiere during Cinemanila in 2001, I've been an ardent believer in the cinema of Lav Diaz. “Batang West Side” not only changed the way that I viewed cinema and the possibilities of Philippine cinema, but it was the film that made cinema matter to me, personally. It impact to me was like that of “Night and Fog” to Daney: a numbing revelation of the power this medium.
Diaz's long takes feel right. I've seen “Batang West Side” (edited by Ron Dale) three times now and the 11-hour “Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino” (edited by Diaz himself) four, and the rhythm of each shot seems timed to near-perfection. Diaz's shots linger long enough to let thoughts ferment and to let the eyes explore and wander; absorbing in equal measure the crevices of the frame, the ambient sounds of the world captured in it, and the audiences own personal reflections on the relation of what one is seeing now to what has been shown to him prior. They cut, in my viewing experience; at the moment when it feels ones attention may soon be diverted.
This, however, is the first time I am on the set of a Lav Diaz film…
As minutes pass, the frame remains stagnant, nothing changing, nothing moving, save for the natural ebb and flow of the river. Far in the distance on the dirt road in front of me there is movement. Heremias (played by Ronnie Lazaro) is walking forward towards me at a snails-pace, his cow trailing slightly to his side, guided by a rope he holds loosely. So beaten and worn is this character (by what we know not) that he has chosen to leave his band of traveling handicraft vendors and venture off on his own. His feet don't walk, they labor, and considering the incredible distances he must traverse (first with his cow, later alone), the toll it takes on the body and the mind must be incredible. This is solitude, this is loneliness, and it is the path he has chosen.
Heremias, feet dragging, head bowed humbly, has finally reached the point of entry into the river. He steps in first, legs weary, and dips his hand in the water as his cow trails him along the slippery path. He walks to the middle of the river, the center of Diaz's frame (which has remained stationary throughout), and places the shirt that has been resting on his shoulder on a rock, dipping his hands into the river to clean them. He turns again to his majestic cow, the soothing sounds of water flowing in the river in the background, and begins to wash him, gently dabbing water from the river on it's body, rubbing it over its torso and legs in an effort to cleanse it from the dirt it must have accumulated over the course of their journey.
Often when Diaz's characters enter a stagnant frame from a distance, the shot will be held until the character exits the frame; it is a pattern you become accustomed to and begin to expect when watching a Lav Diaz film. For the uninitiated it can be unbearable to endure, for those that have come to expect it, it is therapy.
Heremias pauses for a moment and looks out into the distance of the river…
Ronnie Lazaro has a magnificent body. It has nothing to do with muscle (which he has; his chest built like a gladiator) nor stature (he is not tall though neither is he short), but with the relation of his body, to the manner in which he carries it; the way he moves, sits, stands, pauses. Simple put— his way of being. He is representative of the every-Filipino: humble yet strong, quiet yet resilient. Sturdy, and able to endure.
Luc Dardenne, members of the Jury that awarded the short film he starred in, “Anino” (Shadows), the Palme D'or in Cannes in 2000, described Ronnie Lazaro as a beautiful, enigmatic image on the screen. I must agree with Dardenne, and I believe this enigma, this mystery, is borne out of the contradictions of Lazaro's body (imposing) and his nature (meek). But this meekness is not a manifestation of humility without conviction, but rather the opposite: it is the demeanor of one who has/is contemplating the world around him, and choosing if and when the proper time to act is. The body ensures survival while searching; the search leads to conviction in moments of action.
He turns back to his cow, placing hand on its shoulder, and looks diagonally to that which is beyond the scope of our frame (opposite from the side he entered). His head is barely taller than the back of the cow. The moment passes… and he returns to washing his companion, darting underneath him at one point to better wash his underside.
He then rests himself down on a rock near his cow. He seeks a moment to himself, once again, before his cow, equally noble in appearance and having hardly have moved at this point, nudges him slightly with his head, causing Heremias to turn and pat him lovingly on the nose. We are now 12 minutes into the shot at this point, and the crew all light up with smiles at this sight, as if the cow, reading their minds, was nudging Ronnie to say “get up, let's go!” knowing Diaz's modus operandi, that “cut” would only enter the vocabulary once they exited the frame.
Heremias sits undeterred by the prodding, and his cow then lowers his head resigned to wait and drinks from the river. After a beat Heremias walks to the rock where he placed his shirt, and puts it back on. Again, he takes a moment to sit, head-lowered, and let the water pass through legs…
Remember that the workers above have halted their grind and are watching, quizzically, as, in their eyes, nothing is happening.
I stand silent, alone in my thoughts, still in the same position I was in when the camera began its set-up. I am getting impatient at this spectacle, nervously glancing at the workers, bystanders, and various members of the crew. A devout cinephile and lover of long takes pregnant with meaning I am, not to mention a devout believer in the cinema of Diaz, but at this precise moment I am no better than any other person on the set. We all began the scene with intent concentration but at this point we've been broken. It is only Lav, Ronnie and the cow who remain in focus. Or maybe just Lav and Ronnnie…
Minutes pass and Heremias stands up, tugging the rope that is tied to his cow, leading him out of the river and back to the road in front of me; the road from which they came. They walk, slowly, continuing to preserve patient movement proper to the film. I didn't know this at the time, but the left side of the frame of the shot ends just before the dirt road begins; the view of the path that they walk is obstructed almost completely by shrubbery (as with many shots in his films, it is not a matter of seeing the characters that is important to Diaz, it is that we know they are there).
The crew waits with giddy anticipation, and as Heremias and cow wander far off into the distance, Diaz yells, “cut”. The crew applauds, the onlookers wonder why, and the construction workers resume their grind.
When I watch the finished film of Heremias for the first time I notice this shot. It was one of a small handful that I had the privilege to witness firsthand. In the film, the beginning and ending of the shot are abbreviated—we see Heremias and his cow, walking to us and away from us only briefly. I sink into the river while watching and listening to this scene, enraptured by the beauty of nature, entranced by the soothing sounds of the water flowing; feeling, understanding, what this moment means to Heremias. Diaz's air on set, his resiliency and belief in his art, in art period, represent the melding of what Ronnie Lazaro's body represents and his meekness seeks. There is humility in Diaz's patience, and a resiliency in his unwavering gaze, unwavering patience of his camera. It is a patience born from a conviction.
I did not concede to this on the set, but understood when watching the film. Standing on that dirt road, I was anxiously anticipating the word “cut”. Sitting in my cinema seat, I wish this shot could go on forever…
From KINO Magazine, Slovenia and Rogue Magazine (http://issuu.com/migmari/docs/rogue_v1.3_september-lowres?mode=embed&documentId=080405080601-0ceb76956ac242f7aa1742b770a79eda&layout=grey)
We walk a narrow dirt path lined randomly with fragmented rocks, working our way down to the point that runs parallel to a long river; a river that serves as a divide between the ground I walk on and the grassy terrain on side opposite. The landscape on this side rises up drastically: dirt, low-cost housing is being prepared on the main plain some twenty feet higher. Lav Diaz, sporting a worn back t-shirt, (which appears to have weathered many battles) and black jeans torn at the knees, his cinematographer (twenty-something Mara Benitez, daughter of a well-known underwater cinematographer) following suit, steps gingerly into the water. They cross to the midpoint in the narrow river, water reaching their ankles, their pants are rolled up just below the knees.
The soundman Bob Macabenta tests the levels of the DAT recording device (borrowed from cinematographer Neil Daza). There is loud noise coming from the construction going on in the main plain above us, and it dominates the audio. Rolly (the stout production manager), and Celso (the diligent AD and line producer), quiet the workers, asking that they halt their work briefly for the duration of the shot. They oblige, intrigued by what is going on, and watch intently the proceedings from their birds-eye position.
Bob sends Lav a thumb's up sign, signaling the sound is clear. Lav takes one more peek through the eyehole of the camera, a glance at the LCD display detailing the frame, then a final look at the river, whose water persists, tranquilly. He folds his arms in front of his chest, and in his typical crooked stance (he has muscle problems) yells out into the distance, “Action!”. The crew looks on, the construction workers are paused, watching, and I observe standing on the dirt road to the side of the river. We wait…
Since first watching the 5-hour “Batang West Side”, at its World Premiere during Cinemanila in 2001, I've been an ardent believer in the cinema of Lav Diaz. “Batang West Side” not only changed the way that I viewed cinema and the possibilities of Philippine cinema, but it was the film that made cinema matter to me, personally. It impact to me was like that of “Night and Fog” to Daney: a numbing revelation of the power this medium.
Diaz's long takes feel right. I've seen “Batang West Side” (edited by Ron Dale) three times now and the 11-hour “Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino” (edited by Diaz himself) four, and the rhythm of each shot seems timed to near-perfection. Diaz's shots linger long enough to let thoughts ferment and to let the eyes explore and wander; absorbing in equal measure the crevices of the frame, the ambient sounds of the world captured in it, and the audiences own personal reflections on the relation of what one is seeing now to what has been shown to him prior. They cut, in my viewing experience; at the moment when it feels ones attention may soon be diverted.
This, however, is the first time I am on the set of a Lav Diaz film…
As minutes pass, the frame remains stagnant, nothing changing, nothing moving, save for the natural ebb and flow of the river. Far in the distance on the dirt road in front of me there is movement. Heremias (played by Ronnie Lazaro) is walking forward towards me at a snails-pace, his cow trailing slightly to his side, guided by a rope he holds loosely. So beaten and worn is this character (by what we know not) that he has chosen to leave his band of traveling handicraft vendors and venture off on his own. His feet don't walk, they labor, and considering the incredible distances he must traverse (first with his cow, later alone), the toll it takes on the body and the mind must be incredible. This is solitude, this is loneliness, and it is the path he has chosen.
Heremias, feet dragging, head bowed humbly, has finally reached the point of entry into the river. He steps in first, legs weary, and dips his hand in the water as his cow trails him along the slippery path. He walks to the middle of the river, the center of Diaz's frame (which has remained stationary throughout), and places the shirt that has been resting on his shoulder on a rock, dipping his hands into the river to clean them. He turns again to his majestic cow, the soothing sounds of water flowing in the river in the background, and begins to wash him, gently dabbing water from the river on it's body, rubbing it over its torso and legs in an effort to cleanse it from the dirt it must have accumulated over the course of their journey.
Often when Diaz's characters enter a stagnant frame from a distance, the shot will be held until the character exits the frame; it is a pattern you become accustomed to and begin to expect when watching a Lav Diaz film. For the uninitiated it can be unbearable to endure, for those that have come to expect it, it is therapy.
Heremias pauses for a moment and looks out into the distance of the river…
Ronnie Lazaro has a magnificent body. It has nothing to do with muscle (which he has; his chest built like a gladiator) nor stature (he is not tall though neither is he short), but with the relation of his body, to the manner in which he carries it; the way he moves, sits, stands, pauses. Simple put— his way of being. He is representative of the every-Filipino: humble yet strong, quiet yet resilient. Sturdy, and able to endure.
Luc Dardenne, members of the Jury that awarded the short film he starred in, “Anino” (Shadows), the Palme D'or in Cannes in 2000, described Ronnie Lazaro as a beautiful, enigmatic image on the screen. I must agree with Dardenne, and I believe this enigma, this mystery, is borne out of the contradictions of Lazaro's body (imposing) and his nature (meek). But this meekness is not a manifestation of humility without conviction, but rather the opposite: it is the demeanor of one who has/is contemplating the world around him, and choosing if and when the proper time to act is. The body ensures survival while searching; the search leads to conviction in moments of action.
He turns back to his cow, placing hand on its shoulder, and looks diagonally to that which is beyond the scope of our frame (opposite from the side he entered). His head is barely taller than the back of the cow. The moment passes… and he returns to washing his companion, darting underneath him at one point to better wash his underside.
He then rests himself down on a rock near his cow. He seeks a moment to himself, once again, before his cow, equally noble in appearance and having hardly have moved at this point, nudges him slightly with his head, causing Heremias to turn and pat him lovingly on the nose. We are now 12 minutes into the shot at this point, and the crew all light up with smiles at this sight, as if the cow, reading their minds, was nudging Ronnie to say “get up, let's go!” knowing Diaz's modus operandi, that “cut” would only enter the vocabulary once they exited the frame.
Heremias sits undeterred by the prodding, and his cow then lowers his head resigned to wait and drinks from the river. After a beat Heremias walks to the rock where he placed his shirt, and puts it back on. Again, he takes a moment to sit, head-lowered, and let the water pass through legs…
Remember that the workers above have halted their grind and are watching, quizzically, as, in their eyes, nothing is happening.
I stand silent, alone in my thoughts, still in the same position I was in when the camera began its set-up. I am getting impatient at this spectacle, nervously glancing at the workers, bystanders, and various members of the crew. A devout cinephile and lover of long takes pregnant with meaning I am, not to mention a devout believer in the cinema of Diaz, but at this precise moment I am no better than any other person on the set. We all began the scene with intent concentration but at this point we've been broken. It is only Lav, Ronnie and the cow who remain in focus. Or maybe just Lav and Ronnnie…
Minutes pass and Heremias stands up, tugging the rope that is tied to his cow, leading him out of the river and back to the road in front of me; the road from which they came. They walk, slowly, continuing to preserve patient movement proper to the film. I didn't know this at the time, but the left side of the frame of the shot ends just before the dirt road begins; the view of the path that they walk is obstructed almost completely by shrubbery (as with many shots in his films, it is not a matter of seeing the characters that is important to Diaz, it is that we know they are there).
The crew waits with giddy anticipation, and as Heremias and cow wander far off into the distance, Diaz yells, “cut”. The crew applauds, the onlookers wonder why, and the construction workers resume their grind.
When I watch the finished film of Heremias for the first time I notice this shot. It was one of a small handful that I had the privilege to witness firsthand. In the film, the beginning and ending of the shot are abbreviated—we see Heremias and his cow, walking to us and away from us only briefly. I sink into the river while watching and listening to this scene, enraptured by the beauty of nature, entranced by the soothing sounds of the water flowing; feeling, understanding, what this moment means to Heremias. Diaz's air on set, his resiliency and belief in his art, in art period, represent the melding of what Ronnie Lazaro's body represents and his meekness seeks. There is humility in Diaz's patience, and a resiliency in his unwavering gaze, unwavering patience of his camera. It is a patience born from a conviction.
I did not concede to this on the set, but understood when watching the film. Standing on that dirt road, I was anxiously anticipating the word “cut”. Sitting in my cinema seat, I wish this shot could go on forever…
From KINO Magazine, Slovenia and Rogue Magazine (http://issuu.com/migmari/docs/rogue_v1.3_september-lowres?mode=embed&documentId=080405080601-0ceb76956ac242f7aa1742b770a79eda&layout=grey)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Batang West Side
By Alexis Tioseco
Batang West Side is an unequivocal masterpiece.
Read that again.
I know that it is common practice to allow a film to stand the test of time (people often say 10-20 years) before making such a claim, but I am that confident that this film will not only hold up over time, but be held in an even higher regard.
Why will Batang West Side challenge Philippine cinema? The film is long. Very long. It's 5 hours. 2 ½ - 3 times the length of a conventional film. Many quip at the very thought of watching a five hour movie, and persevere in their argument that it is self-indulgent and arrogant to expect an audience to sit through it. But what they need to understand, Lav explains ever-so-eloquently in his director's statement for the Hong Kong International Film Festival:
'Batang West Side is five hours long. For many this is an issue. A huge issue, and a headache to many here in the Philippines. But not an issue if we remember that there are small and large canvasses; brief ditties and lengthy arias; short stories and multi-volume novels; the haiku and The Iliad. This should be the end of the argument.'
Batang West Side is the antithesis of a present-day Filipino film, not only challenging our natural sensibilities on what the length of a film should be, but, even more so, challenging our sensibilities about how a (Filipino) film should be made. There is violence, but it is brief and subtle. There is a young couple, but there are no hot love scenes. There are parent-child arguments, but there is no melodrama. There are serious questions, but no half-assed answers.
How will Batang West Side change Philippine cinema? Precisely through challenging it. It is a common and acceptable practice for filmmakers to make films for an audience. To play to an audience's sensibilities (there's that word again), and make films that they will like and easily accept. But once in a while, just once in a while, you have to challenge an audience and hope that they grow with you as a result. Progress was never made without first attempting to defy the norm.
By making a film of this length, by making it in such a manner, by refusing to cut it, by the recognition it has received both here and overseas, the makers of Batang West Side serve as a shining example of the fortitude needed to reverse our cinema's current stigma.
There are no weak links in the film. Its narrative flows smoothly. Its acting, from both veterans (Joel Torre, Gloria Diaz, among others) and young actors (Yul Servo, Priscilla Almeda) alike is uniformly solid. The film's cinematography, courtesy of Miguel Fabie III, Tony Ponti, and Ruben Lee, is superb: a feat that should be commended to the high heavens if we are to believe the words of Diaz, that eighty percent of the film was shot with available light. Its editing by Ron Dale, despite the numerous complaints about the film's length, is brilliant, each shot remaining on the screen long enough to provoke and let linger the film's various ideas.
Batang West Side is about a lot of things. It's about Fil-Ams, the American dream, family, infidelity, secrets, Martial Law, drugs, reflection, decisions, friendship, identity, patriotism, responsibility, and the collective murdering of the Filipino soul. It's about questions more than it is about answers, and it's about making us think, probe, examine, and ultimately reflect.
The bulk of Batang West Side is spent following a detective trying to answer the questions behind the death of Hanzel, but the case is never resolved. Who did kill Hanzel - gangsters? Drug addicts? His mother's lover? Himself? The film doesn't attempt to give any answers, and it's only fitting that it doesn't. On numerous occasions, our protagonist, Mijarez, is asked tough questions-- by his therapist, by Hanzel's mother, by the documentarian, among others. His answer each time speaks volumes, of him, of us, of our mentality:
`I don't know'.
What director Lav Diaz has done with Batang West Side is craft a film so thorough in its dissection of its subject, and so engaging in its handling, that to watch it, in its entirety, is nothing short of a cathartic experience. It may just as well be us in the place of Joel Torre in the film's last few frames, he alone in the middle of the cold New Jersey night, us alone with our thoughts in the middle of a cold movie theater, exhaling our repressed burdens and inhaling peace of mind.
This is the first film review written by Alexis Tioseco. He wrote it on April 23, 2003.
Batang West Side is an unequivocal masterpiece.
Read that again.
I know that it is common practice to allow a film to stand the test of time (people often say 10-20 years) before making such a claim, but I am that confident that this film will not only hold up over time, but be held in an even higher regard.
Why will Batang West Side challenge Philippine cinema? The film is long. Very long. It's 5 hours. 2 ½ - 3 times the length of a conventional film. Many quip at the very thought of watching a five hour movie, and persevere in their argument that it is self-indulgent and arrogant to expect an audience to sit through it. But what they need to understand, Lav explains ever-so-eloquently in his director's statement for the Hong Kong International Film Festival:
'Batang West Side is five hours long. For many this is an issue. A huge issue, and a headache to many here in the Philippines. But not an issue if we remember that there are small and large canvasses; brief ditties and lengthy arias; short stories and multi-volume novels; the haiku and The Iliad. This should be the end of the argument.'
Batang West Side is the antithesis of a present-day Filipino film, not only challenging our natural sensibilities on what the length of a film should be, but, even more so, challenging our sensibilities about how a (Filipino) film should be made. There is violence, but it is brief and subtle. There is a young couple, but there are no hot love scenes. There are parent-child arguments, but there is no melodrama. There are serious questions, but no half-assed answers.
How will Batang West Side change Philippine cinema? Precisely through challenging it. It is a common and acceptable practice for filmmakers to make films for an audience. To play to an audience's sensibilities (there's that word again), and make films that they will like and easily accept. But once in a while, just once in a while, you have to challenge an audience and hope that they grow with you as a result. Progress was never made without first attempting to defy the norm.
By making a film of this length, by making it in such a manner, by refusing to cut it, by the recognition it has received both here and overseas, the makers of Batang West Side serve as a shining example of the fortitude needed to reverse our cinema's current stigma.
There are no weak links in the film. Its narrative flows smoothly. Its acting, from both veterans (Joel Torre, Gloria Diaz, among others) and young actors (Yul Servo, Priscilla Almeda) alike is uniformly solid. The film's cinematography, courtesy of Miguel Fabie III, Tony Ponti, and Ruben Lee, is superb: a feat that should be commended to the high heavens if we are to believe the words of Diaz, that eighty percent of the film was shot with available light. Its editing by Ron Dale, despite the numerous complaints about the film's length, is brilliant, each shot remaining on the screen long enough to provoke and let linger the film's various ideas.
Batang West Side is about a lot of things. It's about Fil-Ams, the American dream, family, infidelity, secrets, Martial Law, drugs, reflection, decisions, friendship, identity, patriotism, responsibility, and the collective murdering of the Filipino soul. It's about questions more than it is about answers, and it's about making us think, probe, examine, and ultimately reflect.
The bulk of Batang West Side is spent following a detective trying to answer the questions behind the death of Hanzel, but the case is never resolved. Who did kill Hanzel - gangsters? Drug addicts? His mother's lover? Himself? The film doesn't attempt to give any answers, and it's only fitting that it doesn't. On numerous occasions, our protagonist, Mijarez, is asked tough questions-- by his therapist, by Hanzel's mother, by the documentarian, among others. His answer each time speaks volumes, of him, of us, of our mentality:
`I don't know'.
What director Lav Diaz has done with Batang West Side is craft a film so thorough in its dissection of its subject, and so engaging in its handling, that to watch it, in its entirety, is nothing short of a cathartic experience. It may just as well be us in the place of Joel Torre in the film's last few frames, he alone in the middle of the cold New Jersey night, us alone with our thoughts in the middle of a cold movie theater, exhaling our repressed burdens and inhaling peace of mind.
This is the first film review written by Alexis Tioseco. He wrote it on April 23, 2003.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
'Impiyerno' lyrics:
Words and music by Lav Diaz
I. Paalam (Haiku)
Balot ang bundok
Ng puting alapaap
Malayong musa
Haplos ng ambon
Anino mong nagdaan
Naaaninag
Hampas ng ulan
Lihim na kalungkutan
Nananambitan
Taghoy ng gabi
Dahon kang naglalayag
Sa panaginip
Rosas sa pader
Gumagapang na lungsod
Nangungulila
Patlang sa buwan
Nakaguhit mong anyo
Sa kalawakan
Dalit ng hangin
Pangamba ng taglamig
Isang paglisan
Gintong panahon
Hiram na kapalaran
Pamamaalam
Paalam... paalam... paalam...
II. I'll Be Gone
He was telling a story
It was a Russian story
It was a film of Andre Tarkovsky
It was about the girl in a mirror
He said, I can't forget her
Now I only see her in the vastness, in the blankness, in the madness of my dreams.
She said she hates the city so much
And she wrote some poetry at night
And we talked about philosophy and ideology
She said, she cares so much about life and me
She'll never forget me, she'll never forgive me
But she still hopes to see me someday.
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
He is writing a story
And the premise is on history
And when he shoots his movie
There'll be no use of Stanislavsky
All the actors must be free, free
And we'll be working hard all day.
And then she smiled at me at the counter
It wasn't the first time that I see her
She untied her hair and pressed the coffeemaker
She said, "Man, why are you always here?
Why are you always alone?
Are you waiting for somebody out there?"
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
Now, it's cold and dry in Quezon City
She's so tired she couldn't cry, it's February
My gift for her is poster of a movie
It's all about West Side Avenue in Jersey City
She lives all alone now
She lives in a dark, dark room
She only comes out at night
She walks the dark streets
And hopes to meet somebody out there.
The day she left for New York City
The cold's a killer out there in the story
She said, 'Oh God, please help preserve my country
All the theaters are closed
There's nothing here for me
I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I’m leaving now
But I still love you, Baby'
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
III. Cold
The streets are cold and you worry
Now you're walking with your story
You've been dreaming of home
You've been driving alone
You say you're lost and weary
You feel so dead and empty.
When I tried to talk to you
You didn't listen at all
You say the sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something;s good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you.
What's the cause
What's your story
Some things seem lost
Some things look dirty
This world is old and cold
You hold your head and fold
Your eyes are dark and dreary
Your voice is sad and heavy
When your friends come to you
You didn't listen at all
The sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
The waves of dawn are still roaring
But in your head the world is burning
In your head every thing's turning
In your head somebody's screaming
Please, rest your feet and stay
Please, rest your soul and see
That something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you.
IV. Awit ni Patricia
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
Sa pagdalaw ng gabi
At pagtighaw ng alinsangan
Nanakaw ng sandali
Nang di mawalay sa isipan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng pag-alinlangan
Lalagi sa aking tabi
Alaala ng iyong pagpisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinihintay-hintay kita
Hinihintay, hinihintay.
Sa pagbalot ng dilim
At pagtahimik ng lansangan
Idadako ang paningin
Sa pinto ng panambitan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng kahinaan
Laging kong tatandaan
Ang dahilan ng 'yong paglisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
V. Dead River
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, don't wake me
Please, don't wake me
Please don't wake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
My tears flow on this dead river
My tears flow on this dead river
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me.
VI. Ang Pinagdaanang Buhay
Paggising mo sa isang umaga
Walang kasamang nakaabang
Walang kaibigang naghihintay
Nangungulila ka sa 'yong pag-iisa.
Naglalaro sa 'yong isipan
Ang dating daang binabagtas
Napabayaang mga bakas
Isang pangarap na di na natupad.
Paghakbang mo sa lansangan
Naroon sila, nakamasid
Mga aninong nakasunod
Mga multo ng 'yong kahapon.
Nakikibaka ka sa araw-araw
Gumagapang sa karimlan
Lumalaban na mapunan
Ang panghihina ng 'yong kamalayan.
Sa pagdating ng labis na kapaguran
Nilulunod ng panahon
Umaasa kang mawawala
Ang bigat ng 'yong mga dalahin.
Sana'y humupa rin ang unos
Maglunoy ka sa tag-ulan
Yakapin mo ang kawalan
Huwag kang matakot sa 'yong pag-iisa.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang mukhang nakatungo
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang larawang naglalaho
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Mga pangalang papalayo
Mga aninong naglalaho
Sa isang mundo na 'yong iiwanan.
VII. Ina ng Nawawala
Siya's isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Si Porfirio ay binata na
Kailan lang ay college na
Tanging pangarap niya
Mapagtapos ng karera
Baka natrapik siya
Ang laging sambit niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Sa hapunan ay wala pa
Mahal niyang asawa
Kaylaon nang wala
Mag-isang iginapang niya
Ang buhay nilang mag-ina
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Ang isang katulad mo
Sa mundo ay dakila.
Anak, mag-ingat ka
Ang laging habol niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Ay papasok na sa eskwela.
Di alam ni Aling Maria
Si Porfirio's kasama
Sa eskwela't sa kalsada
Humahanay sa martsa
Isang araw sa Mendiola
Si Porfirio'y kasama
Nagkagulong bigla
At may dumukot sa kanya
Si Aling Maria
Magdamag sa bintana
Huling balita niya
Si Porfirio ay nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Ngayon ay wala na
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Kabilang na sa nawawala.
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Wala nang nagawa
Sa kaapihang dinanas niya
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Katinuan ay nawala
Dahil sa hapis na di mabata
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Huwag kang mag-alala
Siya'y aming idadambana
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Mapalad kang ina
Anak mo'y dakila.
VIII. Pray
She curls on her pillow
She closes the window
The rooms so frozen and dry
And she hears a lullaby.
He hits the highway sign
It's the spirit of the wine
The road's so dusty and he's tired
He hears a friend just died.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
He crosses the river
Lives with a sinner
He sails the seas and skies
He writes those long goodbyes
She lights a cigarette
Her face a silhouette
She waits and waits at the street corner
'Though she knows it's over.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
The walks are longer
The talks are stronger
It was the best defense he's told
When silence couldn't hold.
She couldn't stand to look
When his words had made her shook
The distance tough between them now
They gave up on their vow.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
His thoughts are wont to tell
That living here is hell
She says, that's not really the case, my friend
You know, it's easy to pretend.
Another glass of wine
Her life is on the line
He seeks forgiveness and redemption
That time has never shown.
And pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
IX. Post-apocalyptic Sky
She's rolling on the dice
Slipping on the ice
She's keeping it all inside her head
She's keeping the pain inside her heart
Don't keep it all inside
Find some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
She's taken on the stage
And keeping up her space
She says, this life is just another rehearsal
My life's the ultimate scene in this play
Don't swallow it all inside
Have some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Shadows on the wall
Shadows on the hall
Your voice is hovering but you're not here
This room is empty, this room is full of ghosts
Don't turn your back, my love
Please, give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Debris on the ground
Wild dogs all around
It's all gray, it's all black and white
A soul is hungry, a soul is empty, a soul is lost
Don't go away, my love
Please give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
X. Kumusta Ka
Kumusta ka
Nasaan ka na ngayon
Saan ka humahapon
Ano ang 'yong maghapon
Ano ang 'yong ginagawa
Binabaybay mo ba ang lawa
Gumagawa ka ba ng isang kanta.
Kumusta ka
Balitaan mo ako
Kung anong nakikita mo
Kung anong naiisip mo
Kung anong nangyayari sa 'yo
May bago ka na bang nobela
May bago ka na bang pelikula.
Kumusta ka
May sayawan sa ibayo
May inang nasisiphayo
Umiiyak ang ermitanyo
Silang lahat ay nagkakagulo
Wala na ang ating makata
Makahiga na siya sa bangketa.
Kumusta ka
Nanghaharana ang gabi
Nagsasayaw ang kalapati
Humihingi ng pagtatangi
Kayong lahat ay nakatingin lang sa tabi
Wala na ang ating mga saksi
Sila ngayo'y napipi't nabingi.
Kumusta ka
May parada sa ating baryo
Ang lahat ay kandidato
Walang puwang ang pag-ibig mo
Magwawakas na ang senakulo
Wala na ang ating payaso
Nakakulong na siya sa palasyo.
Kumusta ka
Huwag ka sanang magbabago
Huwag ka sanang magtatago
Kailangan ka namin dito
Kailangan pa ang tulong mo
Saka ka na magpahinga
Marami pa tayong magagawa.
Halika na
Samahan mo ako
Huwag tayong sumuko
Sumulong pa tayo
Lumaban pa tayo
Itaas ang iyong kamao
Isigaw ang boses mo
Lumaban tayo nang husto
Habang tayo ay narito
Habang buo ang ating mga puso.
I. Paalam (Haiku)
Balot ang bundok
Ng puting alapaap
Malayong musa
Haplos ng ambon
Anino mong nagdaan
Naaaninag
Hampas ng ulan
Lihim na kalungkutan
Nananambitan
Taghoy ng gabi
Dahon kang naglalayag
Sa panaginip
Rosas sa pader
Gumagapang na lungsod
Nangungulila
Patlang sa buwan
Nakaguhit mong anyo
Sa kalawakan
Dalit ng hangin
Pangamba ng taglamig
Isang paglisan
Gintong panahon
Hiram na kapalaran
Pamamaalam
Paalam... paalam... paalam...
II. I'll Be Gone
He was telling a story
It was a Russian story
It was a film of Andre Tarkovsky
It was about the girl in a mirror
He said, I can't forget her
Now I only see her in the vastness, in the blankness, in the madness of my dreams.
She said she hates the city so much
And she wrote some poetry at night
And we talked about philosophy and ideology
She said, she cares so much about life and me
She'll never forget me, she'll never forgive me
But she still hopes to see me someday.
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
He is writing a story
And the premise is on history
And when he shoots his movie
There'll be no use of Stanislavsky
All the actors must be free, free
And we'll be working hard all day.
And then she smiled at me at the counter
It wasn't the first time that I see her
She untied her hair and pressed the coffeemaker
She said, "Man, why are you always here?
Why are you always alone?
Are you waiting for somebody out there?"
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
Now, it's cold and dry in Quezon City
She's so tired she couldn't cry, it's February
My gift for her is poster of a movie
It's all about West Side Avenue in Jersey City
She lives all alone now
She lives in a dark, dark room
She only comes out at night
She walks the dark streets
And hopes to meet somebody out there.
The day she left for New York City
The cold's a killer out there in the story
She said, 'Oh God, please help preserve my country
All the theaters are closed
There's nothing here for me
I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I’m leaving now
But I still love you, Baby'
Then I'll be gone
When night is done
'Cause I'm on the run
In the early sun
And the rain has come
To hide all this tears for you.
III. Cold
The streets are cold and you worry
Now you're walking with your story
You've been dreaming of home
You've been driving alone
You say you're lost and weary
You feel so dead and empty.
When I tried to talk to you
You didn't listen at all
You say the sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something;s good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you.
What's the cause
What's your story
Some things seem lost
Some things look dirty
This world is old and cold
You hold your head and fold
Your eyes are dark and dreary
Your voice is sad and heavy
When your friends come to you
You didn't listen at all
The sky's falling down on you
There's darkness all around you.
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
Something's good in you
The waves of dawn are still roaring
But in your head the world is burning
In your head every thing's turning
In your head somebody's screaming
Please, rest your feet and stay
Please, rest your soul and see
That something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you
Something's great in you.
IV. Awit ni Patricia
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
Sa pagdalaw ng gabi
At pagtighaw ng alinsangan
Nanakaw ng sandali
Nang di mawalay sa isipan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng pag-alinlangan
Lalagi sa aking tabi
Alaala ng iyong pagpisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinihintay-hintay kita
Hinihintay, hinihintay.
Sa pagbalot ng dilim
At pagtahimik ng lansangan
Idadako ang paningin
Sa pinto ng panambitan.
At pagdating ng pighati
Na dulot ng kahinaan
Laging kong tatandaan
Ang dahilan ng 'yong paglisan.
Malamig ang hangin
Malamig ang puso
Matamlay ang langit
Matamlay ang himig
Hinahanap-hanap kita
Hinahanap, hinahanap.
V. Dead River
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, don't wake me
Please, don't wake me
Please don't wake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
My tears flow on this dead river
My tears flow on this dead river
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me
Don't forsake me.
I see you in this vast wasteland
Of innocent dumpsite children
And gentle goats
Your stench pierces my eyes
It numbs my brain
It bleeds my soul.
Your tears flow on this dead river
Your tears flow on this dead river
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me
Please, forgive me.
VI. Ang Pinagdaanang Buhay
Paggising mo sa isang umaga
Walang kasamang nakaabang
Walang kaibigang naghihintay
Nangungulila ka sa 'yong pag-iisa.
Naglalaro sa 'yong isipan
Ang dating daang binabagtas
Napabayaang mga bakas
Isang pangarap na di na natupad.
Paghakbang mo sa lansangan
Naroon sila, nakamasid
Mga aninong nakasunod
Mga multo ng 'yong kahapon.
Nakikibaka ka sa araw-araw
Gumagapang sa karimlan
Lumalaban na mapunan
Ang panghihina ng 'yong kamalayan.
Sa pagdating ng labis na kapaguran
Nilulunod ng panahon
Umaasa kang mawawala
Ang bigat ng 'yong mga dalahin.
Sana'y humupa rin ang unos
Maglunoy ka sa tag-ulan
Yakapin mo ang kawalan
Huwag kang matakot sa 'yong pag-iisa.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang mukhang nakatungo
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Isang larawang naglalaho
Isang pangalang papalayo
Isang pag-ibig na walang katuparan.
At sa huli, ang tangi mong maaalala
Mga pangalang papalayo
Mga aninong naglalaho
Sa isang mundo na 'yong iiwanan.
VII. Ina ng Nawawala
Siya's isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Si Porfirio ay binata na
Kailan lang ay college na
Tanging pangarap niya
Mapagtapos ng karera
Baka natrapik siya
Ang laging sambit niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Sa hapunan ay wala pa
Mahal niyang asawa
Kaylaon nang wala
Mag-isang iginapang niya
Ang buhay nilang mag-ina
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Ang isang katulad mo
Sa mundo ay dakila.
Anak, mag-ingat ka
Ang laging habol niya
Tuwing ang anak niya
Ay papasok na sa eskwela.
Di alam ni Aling Maria
Si Porfirio's kasama
Sa eskwela't sa kalsada
Humahanay sa martsa
Isang araw sa Mendiola
Si Porfirio'y kasama
Nagkagulong bigla
At may dumukot sa kanya
Si Aling Maria
Magdamag sa bintana
Huling balita niya
Si Porfirio ay nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Ngayon ay wala na
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Tangi mong pag-asa
Kabilang na sa nawawala.
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa anak niya
Siya'y isang ina
At gaya ng iba
Wala nang nagawa
Sa kaapihang dinanas niya
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Katinuan ay nawala
Dahil sa hapis na di mabata
Siya'y isang ina
At tulad ng iba
Nakaupo sa bintana
Naghihintay sa nawawala
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Huwag kang mag-alala
Siya'y aming idadambana
Aling Maria
Aling Maria
Mapalad kang ina
Anak mo'y dakila.
VIII. Pray
She curls on her pillow
She closes the window
The rooms so frozen and dry
And she hears a lullaby.
He hits the highway sign
It's the spirit of the wine
The road's so dusty and he's tired
He hears a friend just died.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
He crosses the river
Lives with a sinner
He sails the seas and skies
He writes those long goodbyes
She lights a cigarette
Her face a silhouette
She waits and waits at the street corner
'Though she knows it's over.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
The walks are longer
The talks are stronger
It was the best defense he's told
When silence couldn't hold.
She couldn't stand to look
When his words had made her shook
The distance tough between them now
They gave up on their vow.
Pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
His thoughts are wont to tell
That living here is hell
She says, that's not really the case, my friend
You know, it's easy to pretend.
Another glass of wine
Her life is on the line
He seeks forgiveness and redemption
That time has never shown.
And pray for someone
Pray for someone
This world's a hole now
There's no space and time.
IX. Post-apocalyptic Sky
She's rolling on the dice
Slipping on the ice
She's keeping it all inside her head
She's keeping the pain inside her heart
Don't keep it all inside
Find some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
She's taken on the stage
And keeping up her space
She says, this life is just another rehearsal
My life's the ultimate scene in this play
Don't swallow it all inside
Have some peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Shadows on the wall
Shadows on the hall
Your voice is hovering but you're not here
This room is empty, this room is full of ghosts
Don't turn your back, my love
Please, give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
Debris on the ground
Wild dogs all around
It's all gray, it's all black and white
A soul is hungry, a soul is empty, a soul is lost
Don't go away, my love
Please give me peace of mind.
What's in it for me out there
What's in it for me if I go
What's in it for me down here
What's in it for me if I stay
Sometimes all I wanna do
Is wait and watch that post-apocalyptic sky.
X. Kumusta Ka
Kumusta ka
Nasaan ka na ngayon
Saan ka humahapon
Ano ang 'yong maghapon
Ano ang 'yong ginagawa
Binabaybay mo ba ang lawa
Gumagawa ka ba ng isang kanta.
Kumusta ka
Balitaan mo ako
Kung anong nakikita mo
Kung anong naiisip mo
Kung anong nangyayari sa 'yo
May bago ka na bang nobela
May bago ka na bang pelikula.
Kumusta ka
May sayawan sa ibayo
May inang nasisiphayo
Umiiyak ang ermitanyo
Silang lahat ay nagkakagulo
Wala na ang ating makata
Makahiga na siya sa bangketa.
Kumusta ka
Nanghaharana ang gabi
Nagsasayaw ang kalapati
Humihingi ng pagtatangi
Kayong lahat ay nakatingin lang sa tabi
Wala na ang ating mga saksi
Sila ngayo'y napipi't nabingi.
Kumusta ka
May parada sa ating baryo
Ang lahat ay kandidato
Walang puwang ang pag-ibig mo
Magwawakas na ang senakulo
Wala na ang ating payaso
Nakakulong na siya sa palasyo.
Kumusta ka
Huwag ka sanang magbabago
Huwag ka sanang magtatago
Kailangan ka namin dito
Kailangan pa ang tulong mo
Saka ka na magpahinga
Marami pa tayong magagawa.
Halika na
Samahan mo ako
Huwag tayong sumuko
Sumulong pa tayo
Lumaban pa tayo
Itaas ang iyong kamao
Isigaw ang boses mo
Lumaban tayo nang husto
Habang tayo ay narito
Habang buo ang ating mga puso.
“Impiyerno: Songs From & Inspired by the Cinema of Lav Diaz” (3rd .mov International Digital Film Festival)
By Pocholo Concepcion
If people believe that life’s purpose is to find happiness, this CD may either comfort them or drive them nuts. The 10 songs in “Impiyerno” are relentless in their narratives of pain, so that in the end one feels fortunate just to be alive.
The story goes that Lavrente Diaz, aka Lav, kingpin of Pinoy alternative filmmaking, was persuaded to record songs he wrote (in his other life as a dabbling musician) by colleague Khavn De La Cruz in time for the 3rd .mov film fest.
The idea is that De La Cruz, festival director and the album's producer, wants to present Philippine independent cinema's links to music and literature, in which case Diaz, whose writer’s roots and passion are fueled by rock ‘n’ roll, is a worthy subject.
The recording session, in true punk DIY fashion, was done in four hours, with all the songs nailed in one take, even as Diaz was coming down with the flu. Such circumstances lend an eerie sense of authenticity to the album’s dreary mood: Diaz’s voice cracks in a few tracks and his overall performance projects a persona who knows desolation like the back of his hand.
In Diaz’s songs, a couple of which (“Paalam,” “Awit ni Patricia”) are heard in his films, recurring images of long, dark, rainy nights abound; various characters contemplate their agonies; some walk away with festering wounds in their hearts. The earliest tune he wrote, “Ina ng Nawawala,” was inspired by a bloody scene: Lean Alejandro’s assassination in 1987.
In one track, “Cold,” a rare positive line is heard: “Something’s good in you.” Though it sounds more like a plea to the dejected.
The album’s statement, Diaz writes in the liner notes, is: “There is no cure to sadness.” But the way Diaz interprets the experience, with a touch of Neil Young on acoustic guitar, and traces of Bob Dylan, Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen on vocals, should take away the frown.
From The Philippine Daily Inquirer
If people believe that life’s purpose is to find happiness, this CD may either comfort them or drive them nuts. The 10 songs in “Impiyerno” are relentless in their narratives of pain, so that in the end one feels fortunate just to be alive.
The story goes that Lavrente Diaz, aka Lav, kingpin of Pinoy alternative filmmaking, was persuaded to record songs he wrote (in his other life as a dabbling musician) by colleague Khavn De La Cruz in time for the 3rd .mov film fest.
The idea is that De La Cruz, festival director and the album's producer, wants to present Philippine independent cinema's links to music and literature, in which case Diaz, whose writer’s roots and passion are fueled by rock ‘n’ roll, is a worthy subject.
The recording session, in true punk DIY fashion, was done in four hours, with all the songs nailed in one take, even as Diaz was coming down with the flu. Such circumstances lend an eerie sense of authenticity to the album’s dreary mood: Diaz’s voice cracks in a few tracks and his overall performance projects a persona who knows desolation like the back of his hand.
In Diaz’s songs, a couple of which (“Paalam,” “Awit ni Patricia”) are heard in his films, recurring images of long, dark, rainy nights abound; various characters contemplate their agonies; some walk away with festering wounds in their hearts. The earliest tune he wrote, “Ina ng Nawawala,” was inspired by a bloody scene: Lean Alejandro’s assassination in 1987.
In one track, “Cold,” a rare positive line is heard: “Something’s good in you.” Though it sounds more like a plea to the dejected.
The album’s statement, Diaz writes in the liner notes, is: “There is no cure to sadness.” But the way Diaz interprets the experience, with a touch of Neil Young on acoustic guitar, and traces of Bob Dylan, Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen on vocals, should take away the frown.
From The Philippine Daily Inquirer
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