Having been able to watch several Filipino movies in my life, I've learned quite a lot of things. Although I'm not an avid viewer, I've plucked several grains of ideas and lessons out of these films and willfully accepted them as facts of life. It's not that original Filipino movies—though some people say it's an oxymoron—are the only sources of virtues and vices in this side of the world for there are streams of information running elsewhere. It's that these movies can sometimes make you laugh and cry at the same time; some of them are so good at causing you a moment of madness it's ridiculous.
For starters, the main protagonists in action films are always either handsome or beautiful, making their sidekicks look more sorry than they actually do. They wear leather jackets and tight jeans, or anything that has long sleeves, creating the impression that they're such an enigma. Short hair lathered with pomade and long ones washed in oil, they look good even when they're shot in the chest by the villain who looks like a replica of Jorge Estregan or Paquito Diaz. And these cinematic heroes do get laid by a damsel in distress just before a bunch of hoodlums stage an attack with long rifles.
And, as always, the police arrive at the scene of the crime too late, maybe because they come in groups riding tattered and torn automobiles. In the 80s and 90s, they sport a white headband as a fashion statement and they are known to the people as "parak". Today, they no longer wear that for some reason, and we do not even miss it. Strangely enough, it is hard to expect a police authority or a government official in cahoots with the antagonists. It always is the unexpected and trivial twist in the plot of the this type of movie. And then a relative or a friend dies at the hands of the enemy. The revenge for the death of a loved one engulfs the protagonist so bad, whose mustache has grown long for all the days of waiting, that he can no longer live another day if he can't shoot the balls off of the jack-ass with the use of his pistol that never runs out of bullets. These things are entirely original we should be making statues in commemoration of this ingenious technique.
On the other hand, comedy films never run out of actors and actresses hurting one another in the nape or forehead, beating one another like douchebags. Sometimes, a plastic piece of wood or a styrofoam hammer can make the job easier and more hilarious viewers are expected to burst into tears and laughter while they roll back and forth on the floor. If that isn't funny enough, then perhaps the residence of the comic characters—preferably a shanty that looks lost in the midst of the concrete urban jungles—will tickle your bones. Or maybe beside the railroad tracks where the heavy chugging of the train is certain to cause earthly tremors enough to shake the foundations of the house to its knees, sending the kitchen utencils crashing to the wooden floor and enough to awaken the actors and actresses in deep morning slumber.
These comedy films, too, aren't comedy films if they do not have beach outings to begin with. If there are no scenes where almost all of the characters dance in sync to an upbeat song sung by whoelse but the characters themselves, then it isn't comedy, especially if the dancing isn't done with colorful costumes. It will be just another film with no sense of direction, like a a president of a third-world country in the Pacific.
As for romantic flicks, they've got cheese written all over them rats can't be mistaken for attempting to cause pestilence, a bubonic plague if you will, over stocks of films gathering dust in the movie shelves. Sometimes the lead female character is a lesbian who'll inescapably fall for a boy she'll meet by accident. And then she becomes a girl again. Sometimes she's a corporate subordinate with a rich boss driving a Mercedez, or the likes thereof, who's also to become her lover at the end of the story. More often than not, the story revolves around a girl torn between two lovers, or more. The guys get into a brawl soon, only to end-up as friends later.
Another thing. The dining table of rich people in the movies, usually hacienderos or corporate owners, are littered with bananas. And they eat hotdog and fried eggs with a small serving of rice for breakfast. It's always a pitcher of orange juice, never water, that's served by the housemaid. There's always a sort of commotion in the breakfast table. That's how people should start the morning.
And one more thing about Pinoy films. Rich families always have a black sheep whereas poor familes always have at least one industrious child toiling the day in some factory or in the streets peddling wares of varying kinds while the parents are struck by some trivial disease, usually with the symptom of excessive coughing in the middle of a conversation.
As for indie Pinoy films, they never fail to touch on human sexuality. Son or daughter works as a prostitute, a sex worker, a dancer in an obscure bar in the city, or shades of it, in order to earn a living for his or her unfortunate siblings. Someone dies in the family and life turns from worse to worst before better days come in—that is, before another character lifts him or her up back to his or her knees and begins life anew. Sometimes these films cover homosexuality in the guise of awakening the society to the realities of life and—what do you know—world peace. Either way, it's the same difference.
Put all these things together and I do hope you're getting a clear picture of what I am referring to. One asks, where has all the artistry gone? Has there ever been any at all?
And yet, who knows? Things in the local movie industry might not really be turning into a low after all. The sparks of hope are there. You have two Pinoy films bagging the awards in the Pusan film fest quite recently and you feel a sense of relief, no matter how short it may be.
But you never know.
For starters, the main protagonists in action films are always either handsome or beautiful, making their sidekicks look more sorry than they actually do. They wear leather jackets and tight jeans, or anything that has long sleeves, creating the impression that they're such an enigma. Short hair lathered with pomade and long ones washed in oil, they look good even when they're shot in the chest by the villain who looks like a replica of Jorge Estregan or Paquito Diaz. And these cinematic heroes do get laid by a damsel in distress just before a bunch of hoodlums stage an attack with long rifles.
And, as always, the police arrive at the scene of the crime too late, maybe because they come in groups riding tattered and torn automobiles. In the 80s and 90s, they sport a white headband as a fashion statement and they are known to the people as "parak". Today, they no longer wear that for some reason, and we do not even miss it. Strangely enough, it is hard to expect a police authority or a government official in cahoots with the antagonists. It always is the unexpected and trivial twist in the plot of the this type of movie. And then a relative or a friend dies at the hands of the enemy. The revenge for the death of a loved one engulfs the protagonist so bad, whose mustache has grown long for all the days of waiting, that he can no longer live another day if he can't shoot the balls off of the jack-ass with the use of his pistol that never runs out of bullets. These things are entirely original we should be making statues in commemoration of this ingenious technique.
On the other hand, comedy films never run out of actors and actresses hurting one another in the nape or forehead, beating one another like douchebags. Sometimes, a plastic piece of wood or a styrofoam hammer can make the job easier and more hilarious viewers are expected to burst into tears and laughter while they roll back and forth on the floor. If that isn't funny enough, then perhaps the residence of the comic characters—preferably a shanty that looks lost in the midst of the concrete urban jungles—will tickle your bones. Or maybe beside the railroad tracks where the heavy chugging of the train is certain to cause earthly tremors enough to shake the foundations of the house to its knees, sending the kitchen utencils crashing to the wooden floor and enough to awaken the actors and actresses in deep morning slumber.
These comedy films, too, aren't comedy films if they do not have beach outings to begin with. If there are no scenes where almost all of the characters dance in sync to an upbeat song sung by whoelse but the characters themselves, then it isn't comedy, especially if the dancing isn't done with colorful costumes. It will be just another film with no sense of direction, like a a president of a third-world country in the Pacific.
As for romantic flicks, they've got cheese written all over them rats can't be mistaken for attempting to cause pestilence, a bubonic plague if you will, over stocks of films gathering dust in the movie shelves. Sometimes the lead female character is a lesbian who'll inescapably fall for a boy she'll meet by accident. And then she becomes a girl again. Sometimes she's a corporate subordinate with a rich boss driving a Mercedez, or the likes thereof, who's also to become her lover at the end of the story. More often than not, the story revolves around a girl torn between two lovers, or more. The guys get into a brawl soon, only to end-up as friends later.
Another thing. The dining table of rich people in the movies, usually hacienderos or corporate owners, are littered with bananas. And they eat hotdog and fried eggs with a small serving of rice for breakfast. It's always a pitcher of orange juice, never water, that's served by the housemaid. There's always a sort of commotion in the breakfast table. That's how people should start the morning.
And one more thing about Pinoy films. Rich families always have a black sheep whereas poor familes always have at least one industrious child toiling the day in some factory or in the streets peddling wares of varying kinds while the parents are struck by some trivial disease, usually with the symptom of excessive coughing in the middle of a conversation.
As for indie Pinoy films, they never fail to touch on human sexuality. Son or daughter works as a prostitute, a sex worker, a dancer in an obscure bar in the city, or shades of it, in order to earn a living for his or her unfortunate siblings. Someone dies in the family and life turns from worse to worst before better days come in—that is, before another character lifts him or her up back to his or her knees and begins life anew. Sometimes these films cover homosexuality in the guise of awakening the society to the realities of life and—what do you know—world peace. Either way, it's the same difference.
Put all these things together and I do hope you're getting a clear picture of what I am referring to. One asks, where has all the artistry gone? Has there ever been any at all?
And yet, who knows? Things in the local movie industry might not really be turning into a low after all. The sparks of hope are there. You have two Pinoy films bagging the awards in the Pusan film fest quite recently and you feel a sense of relief, no matter how short it may be.
But you never know.
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