I don’t know Richard Bolisay. I may have come across his blog Lilok Pelikula once or twice back when it was still active, but don’t I remember any of the reviews posted there leaving an impression on me. I do however know his friend Aldrin Calimlim, in bookish Instagram, who served as editor for Break It to Me Gently. On its final stages of pre-publication, he posted it on his feed. It was on Filipino film, instinctively I needed to get a copy. Only then did I read about Bolisay, browsed his blog, learned about Everything’s Fine, and I was about to make an order when the first print run sold out (the pink edition). The reviews were glowing, but I can wait. I was then able to read Pro Bernal Anti Bio, Ishmael Bernal’s amazing collected interviews, though published by ABS-CBN, was prepared by the folks at Everything’s Fine. I got more eager of getting the second, this time blue, edition of Bolisay’s book. The lockdown happened in mid-March. After two months, courier services started operating again, with significant delays. My copy was delivered early July. When I started reading it last week, I devoured almost third of the book right away. It was exhilarating, but I wanted to slow down, savor it some more. I read two to three essays a night, treating it like a Bible with daily passages for reflection. The later section of the book is made up of dispatches from film festivals, with much shorter reviews, more condensed punches. The period, I later confirmed by reading Bosilay’s interviews, was when he was preparing for graduate school abroad, and indeed it felt like he was slowing down. I didn’t know Bolisay, but after reading his book, I think we would easily get along. I am, however, conscious of my very different subject position as a lover of cinema and aspiring critic. His passion overflows from his essays, but being someone from Iloilo and not directly involved in films circles (or at least its regional formations), Bolisay’s world (or that of his younger self) is undeniably alien. Hence, this overwrought opening paragraph, full of logistical and tangential details, as this is the frame I will use to review this book. Bolisay is deliberate when he acknowledges that this is his personal experience of the so call Third Golden Age of Philippine Cinema, which he arbitrarily periodized at 2007-17, also the active years of his blog. After finishing the book, I came into terms that my response will similarly be biographical. This is a primary affect of his essays, it makes you ask what were you doing at that time, what you felt during those years. Or maybe nostalgia is just plain fun. I apologize in advance for the amount of oversharing about to ensue.
The introduction of the book reads like a lot of things all at the same time; a manifesto, a laying down of scope and limitations, a love letter, a nail in the coffin. Bolisay recount his journeys, the relationships built, the loneliness of writing criticism, all for the love of cinema during an indisputably important cultural moment. The early 2000s saw the democratization ushered in by digital technology in film that also coincided with long-form blogging as a platform in film criticism. The difficulty of indie films staying in commercial theaters is identical to quality film reviews making their way into print. Elective affinities fell into place. I am slightly younger than Bolisay, and I had much limited access to the internet that time, specifically only visiting the internet cafe for academic work, but I know some of his heroes and can affirm the qualities he admires in them. Oggs Cruz and Noel Vera are two of the most prolific and sharpest critics at that time, and still very much active now. They would write about films very few people would, hence their names showing up right away in search results whenever I type a film title I got the wind of.
I even reached out to Vera when I was writing my undergrad thesis on selected Chito Roño horror films. I needed to write a decent survey of his career, and synopses of many of his works are not even available online. I was dumbfounded to learn this, especially since Roño is one of the most bankable directors working. Vera was kind enough to mine his blog for me and gave links to around five or so reviews on Roño. I got the summaries, and sharp takes as a bonus. So where was I reading my dose of analogue film criticism? I got them from the humble Filipiniana section of the UPV Miagao library. I devoured the handful of books on film, many now criminally out of print; Joel David [The National Pastime (1990), Fields of Vision (1995), Wages of Cinema (1998)], Bien Lumbera [Revaluation: Essays on Literature, Cinema, and Popular Culture (1984, 1997)], Emmanuel Reyes [Notes on Philippine Cinema (1989)], early Rolando Tolentino [Richard Gomez at ang Mito ng Pagkalalake, Sharon Cuneta at ang Perpetwal na Birhen, at Iba Pang Sanaysay Ukol sa Bida sa Pelikula Bilang Kultural na Texto (2000), National/Transnational: Subject Formation and Media in and on the Philippines (2001)], film history by Doy Del Mundo [Native Resistance: Philippine Cinema and Colonialism, 1898-1941 (1998)] and Nick Deocampo [Cine: Spanish Influences On Early Cinema In The Philippines (2003)].
No Urian anthologies, unfortunately. Noteworthy also are complimentary readings on theatre from Doreen Fernandez and Nicanor Tiongson. A battered copy of Readings on Philippine Cinema edited by Rafael Ma. Guerrero (1983) was sacred to me. The first book on film I bought for myself was a bargain priced (100 pesos) Geopolitics Of The Visible: Essays On Philippine Film Cultures (2000) edited by Tolentino. Later, I got it signed when he visited Miagao. Tolentino also regularly wrote for alternative online media outlets, Bulatlat and Pinoyweekly, not just on indie films but also on pop culture and politics. I religiously followed these columns, reading them whenever I need to print something in computer shops, amazing exercises in discursive Filipino and militant cultural critique. These essays were also collected into three volumes by UST Publishing House in 2016, works I felt I badly need to revisit after reading Bolisay.
So my idea of film criticism is largely academic, and following Patrick Campos, naturalized nationalist. We also had recent academic journals but you can’t take them home, the extra effort to read them put me off. Reading this generation of critics made me (oddly) wish I was alive during Martial Law, and everything that came out in the digital wave was always measured against the Second Golden Age. Where did I watch films from the period? Incidentally, the internet got more affordable, and necessary, so when I was in the later years of college, I had a decent connection at home. I painstakingly watched bootleg and horrible VHS-ripped copies of Ganito Kami Noon, Paano Kayo Ngayon? (Eddie Romero, 1976), Bayan Ko: Kapit sa Patalim (Lino Brocka, 1984), and Kisapmata (Mike de Leon, 1981) at YouTube. Manila by Night (Ishmael Bernal, 1980) at Video 84 blog, when it still carried full films for streaming. Perfumed Nightmare (1977) was pretty easy to get hold of, Kidlat Tahimik has a following even before the Internet. Sister Stella L. (Mike de Leon, 1984) and Ora Pro Nobis (Lino Brocka, 1989) were essential viewing in activist circles where I belong. When I had extra money, I would buy VCDs Viva Films still put out back then, displayed in a small spot in department stores and often in bargain prices; Bayaning 3rd World (Mike de Leon, 2000), Gumapang Ka sa Lusak (Lino Brocka, 1990), Sa Pusod ng Dagat (Marilou Diaz-Abaya, 1998).
In regards to indie films, what came out in the newspapers are closer to press releases rather than reviews, and almost always framed by two things; this or that film won recognition in this or that film festival abroad (it was never an Urian or FAMAS), and it has a urgent social statement (the need of which was never questioned under the regimes of GMA and later PNoy). Paradoxical, but it was the impression that reaches folks in the provinces. Aspiring local artists wanted to go to Manila, to join Cinemalaya, expecting it I presume to be their ticket abroad. Whatever that means or entails. Bearing this in mind, Bolisay’s essays are refreshing to me as they zero in on form, problematizing meanings given off with nuance. It is a step away from the academic frame, but not too far into its polar opposite of contained formalism. The language is casual but also literary, it praises when it is deserved, ruthless when it is needed. He also provides context when it is worth discussing, a review of reviews if you will, indicating that he is in dialogue not just with the film but with other critics as well. Strangely this feels both inclusive and exclusive at the same time. For readers like me, it takes effort to relate to festival atmospheres, in which Bolisay has been both an audience and jurors. I believe the contextualizations could have gone beyond their immediate moments, actual or virtual.
For example when On The Job (2013) came out, I recall the belatedly heated discussion when Matti caused a fuss when the film wasn’t selected as the country’s Oscar nominee by the Film Academy of the Philippines (FAP), headed by Peque Gallaga. Matti further theorized that it was an attempt to cover up the already bad image of the country going through Napoles pork barrel scam. When Mendoza won best director for Kinatay (2009), he was featured in talk shows but clips of film shown were blurred. I think that was the first mainstream exposure for the film, and it was a very curious experience for audiences not too familiar with the budding indie wave of films. Roger Ebert slammed the film, to which Bolisay responded briefly, but a peculiar experience I link to that moment was when I read a comment in Ebert’s blog. Someone, I think it was a Filipino based abroad, apologized “on behalf of Filipinos” for offending Ebert’s sensibilities. The review of Honor Thy Father (2015), which I think is Matti’s best work to date, could be more interesting if it included the Best Director row in MMFF. I guess the context I look for, is the type that would include people who weren’t there, or couldn’t be there, in the close spheres of the country’s cultural industries. I believe details of this type, mostly absent in Bolisay’s reviews, elevates the discussion into a more ‘national’ scope, even if that category also has its problems. The films at hand are interrogated, but also the ideas, taken as given, behind the indie wave. Why the need to depict the society’s underbelly and market it to audiences abroad? What roles do censorship and award giving bodies play? And so on.
In the time of stand alone movie houses, there was a pronounced geographical hierarchy of film screenings. Film reels, whether produced locally or from Hollywood, first go to the big venues, then head on to smaller places, then to the provinces, and so on. Many placed their faith in digitalization to break down these walls, but I think it only did so partially. Ironically, there’s actually an increasing number of cinemas in urban centers, Iloilo City included. The profit drive was unwavering, but artists and organizations tried to push back. The aim was not necessarily for a 180-degree turn, but at least carve up a small sustainable spot for Filipino films. The Film Development Council of the Philippines (FDCP) in partnership with the Iloilo City government subsidized screening in big malls, for local audiences to see the latest indie films often for free, or for a small fee. They set it to coincide with the Dinagyang weekend; there were a lot of events and guests, and they even reached out to schools. I will be forever grateful for the chance to see Himpapawid (Raymond Red, 2012) in the big screen for free. After watching Sanglaan (Milo Sogueco, 2009) in an almost full theatre, I heard for the first time audiences in a commercial cinema clap after it ended. Lastly, the laughter the restored version Genghis Khan (Manuel Conde, 1950) elicited from viewers is core memory of my teenage years. Those massive events only lasted a year or two. The long term project was building cinemateques in different parts of the country. The one in Iloilo was opened in 2012. It was located downtown, accessible by public transport, but by then the city’s leisure district already moved elsewhere.
I was then a broke college student with a lot of free time, and didn’t mind the extra commute. Again films are either free, or tickets are much cheaper. There I watched Bagets (Maryo J. de los Reyes, 1984) Donsol (Adolfo Alix, 2006), A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino (Lamberto Avellana, 1965), Pepot Artista (Doy del Mundo Jr., 2005, and a string of foreign (meaning non-Hollywood) films, often in partnership with various embassies. Shortly, a regional film fest was also organized, CineKasimanwa: Western Visayas Film Festival. I don’t know how it is received, since I haven’t been able to attend it, ever. I was almost done with my undergrad when it started, and was preparing to leave the country for work, and would stay outside the country for a few years. It seemed the Iloilo Cinemateque’s programming was also cut down a bit after I left in 2014. I presumed it was too costly, with very little returns. I went back home in 2018, started working a full time job again, and ironically found it more difficult to catch a screening, which there wasn’t a lot of. The exact opposite of my expectation when I was younger, where I thought having a job would actually permit me to participate more in cultural events.
By narrating all these, it makes you admire Bolisay’s efforts to invest his time and resources for the film community, but at the same time, as he admits in an interview, it is mark of privilege, the laying bare of which I am similarly doing. In the intro he also recognizes that he doesn’t have access to films and events outside Metro Manila. I feel I needed to flesh out, at least for my case, what exactly does this mean, so other people might find similarities. After many years, there’s barely a dent in the hegemony of Hollywood, big local studios, and mall theatres. And I fear that the gains of regional cinema is going to be made even more negligible by the current pandemic and state’s continued botched response, especially towards cultural workers. The locality of my upbringing has made me very conscious of this spatial gap or delay, and I value discussing the regional afterlives of films as much as the films themselves.
Aside from championing indie films and events, I also appreciate Bolisay’s attention to a handful of mainstream films, namely Cathy Garcia Molina’s She’s Dating a Gangster (2014) and Peque Gallaga and Lore Reyes’s Aswang (1992). Bolisay never condescends, and assesses commercial films on their own terms. This is a relief, especially since among the effects of the digital wave movement’s failure to reach broader audiences is the somewhat fetishization of small productions along the lines of “I don’t watch Pinoy films unless they’re indie.” I am overjoyed to read him say, ‘[Garcia-Molina] is a director that can easily be dismissed or overrated, but after more than a decade of sticking to her method and style, using them on a number of love teams whether tried or new, it seems only fair to recognize that she is an indispensable filmmaker, as vital to this industry as Lav Diaz and Wenn Deramas, for only she can deliver romantic comedies that are entertaining, insightful, and sensitive, with flair and skill, with indelible moments of catharsis.’ I don’t think I’ve seen She’s Dating a Gangster, but I consider Hello, Love, Goodbye (2019) to be a masterpiece. It makes you mad, think, cry, kilig, all on cue, and most importantly, it made a lot of money, globally. One movie of hers I would like to revisit someday for critical reflection however is Just the 3 of Us (2016), as it candidly used the romcom mode to tackle societal taboos (hook ups, co-habitation, etc), even if it ultimately surrendered to a safe moral formula in the end. On the other hand, I didn’t quite enjoy Aswang as much as Bolisay did, ‘It sure looks dated, but that is more a sign of strength than of weakness. It forgoes the typical too-stupid-to-live characters that permeate more recent episodes of Shake, Rattle, and Roll and strikes a balance between horror and comedy.’ I do still have great respect for Gallaga and Reyes, namely their efforts to localize genres deemed foreign [Batang X (1995), Magic Temple (1996)] especially if placed side by side with the whatever goes/found footage/no script/no storyboard aesthetic of many indie titles, a tendency that Bolisay never fails to call out.
Speaking bad reviews, I rarely write them. It could be laziness, or maybe just a sentiment that bad art isn’t worth writing about. Bolisay is different; the precision of his unpacking is animated, it comes off compassionate to me, but the wit that comes along with its unfolding, if read by filmmakers, could be taken as mocking. I think this is what he refers to when he said this book might ‘reopen wounds’ and ‘attract unneeded animosity’. The cultural sector is after all very small, moving about in a very small space, and a good number of its members are most probably fickle. After all, why put down one of your own, especially if there are bigger adversaries (Hollywood, local big studios, state neglect)? The poetic and brutal takedowns, reminiscent of Ebert, are again focused on form, but in its barest, they are notes for improvement. Bolisay doesn’t get personal, remains articulate, and doesn’t invalidate artistic visions. On Richard Somes, ‘Mariposa (2012) has its share of gripping moments, with narrative crests scattered in the beginning, middle, and end, it becomes weak due to his disregard for pacing, the potboiler never quite boiling because the meat turns out to be half-cooked, the soup lacking more than a pinch of salt.’ On Louie Ignacio, ‘At some point in Asintado (2014), most likely after the first fifteen minutes, the viewer gives up on the idea that it is going to be good.” On Paul Sta. Ana, ‘Sitting through Balut Country (2015) and at some point feeling that is has nothing more to share than platitudes and sentimentality, one wonders why such a harmless film is made, and why, in a world full of pleasant possibilities, an audience must endure eating bland pudding instead of something nourishing.’ On Jim Libiran’s Ninja Party (2015), ‘Having depth, whether explicit or implicit, is not its priority, and the lack of perceptiveness only serves to punctuate the upholding of male entitlement, both in the film and the film-making, and the aftertaste is nasty as fuck.’ Going back to what I mentioned about press releases getting more space than reviews in print, reading these takedowns is sobering. At this point in local cinema’s history, it is clear that the ‘indie’ or ‘support local films’ cards can only take you so far. Good intentions, for both creators and audiences, won’t salvage the industry. Bolisay’s harsh recommendations serve as antidote to this wishful thinking.
So where are we now? I personally think the moment of the Third Golden Age or Digital Wave has long been over bore 2017, for better or worse. Hollywood, big local studios, and big cinema operators are still standing tall, but it would be unfair to claim that it hasn’t changed, from factors internal and external. Online streaming, in both exclusive sites like Netflix or in YouTube, is a formidable alternative to high-brow film festivals, not sure though if it’s sustainable production-wise. Institutionalization in its many faces has issues but it provides a relatively better playing field nonetheless. Glaring at the moment is FDCP’s silence on the shutdown of ABS-CBN, an institution that has overtaken it in restoring classic films. The political potential of indie feature films is all but extinguished (Brilliante Mendoza has filmed Duterte’s SONA, Adolfo Alix made a biopic of Boni Ilagan but also of Bato dela Rosa). Essential reading in this regard is Rolando Tolentino’s 2014 essay ‘Lino Brocka and the Legacy of Political Cinema’, which also served as an intro to his study on Brocka. Fortunately, organized and militant documentary collectives with close ties to disadvantaged communities have also sprung up. Antonette Jadaone has not made a film as smart as Six Degrees of Separation From Lilia Cuntapay (2011) but her commercial romances are more grounded and less reliant on meet cutes. Lav Diaz, ever uncompromising, has more resources than ever, now its just a question of getting his films to people. Regional cinema is blooming slowly but surely. Prospects are dim because of the pandemic, but I believe the spatial gap will eventually be closed, by an emerging generation of filmmaker, conscious of both the victories and defeats of the movement before them.
I concur with Bolisay that long-form blogging is not as vibrant, but the virtual conversations on films is far from dead, whether it is in the form of tweets, FB hot takes, vlogs, podcasts, or even memes. A few hours or a day or two of trending might not seem much, but Philippine cinema’s next century is still unfolding. It must not be hard, to convince a loving critic to pay attention. Why read Bolisay? Because his critical rigor and dedication is as important during a golden age as much as during an industry slump. The book also included reviews on Working Girls (Ishmael Bernal, 1984) and the lesser known Krimen: Kayo Ang Humatol (Jun Raquiza, 1974), proving the conversation on the Second Golden Age itself is not quite finished yet. I believe where are in a parallel low point similar to the post-Marcos 90s, and it is very dangerous to revert back to nostalgia. I hope this sense of discerning wonder will also be instilled in others, as much as Bolisay reignited it in me. Even more so as the bloody years of the Duterte regime drags on, this aspiration for what is possible, not just in film but in society, has become a matter of life and death. Everyone, collectively, has a role to play.
Break It to Me Gently and Pro Bernal Anti Bio are available at the Everything’s Fine website, but they also have an account in Lazada. Both books are highly recommended and will be on sale soon, in time for 11.11. I would like to thank Oliver for entertaining my questions, and helping me in my order.
Jacob Laneria 