CNN recently hailed Himala as the best movie of all time in the Asia-Pacific region. The 1982 film tells the story of Elsa in a marginal town, a girl who claims to have seen the Virgin Mary. She turns into a faith healer and begins to conduct healing crusades in a forgotten land. The film is the brainchild of writer Ricky Lee and director Ishmael Bernal. Who could forget Nora Aunor, arms spread facing the sky, white veil on her head, shouting "walang himala"? Or I may be mistaken with the veil and the arms, but nonetheless the recognition of the film is testament to the glory of Filipino films in earlier times, transcending age and time to great lengths.
While at that, I can't help but recall the recent Senate probe on the fertilizer scam. Fresh from the United States, Jocelyn Bolante was bearded and grilled at the Senate floor. That came after he was admitted at St. Luke's Hospital for health reasons, confusing his digestive problems for a heart ailment. I do not know if human evolution is yet to see its better days, finding remedies for some stomachs reaching as high up as the chest. I do not know if that is a symptom of dementia either, but his age and white hairs do not seem to prove him any wiser. His evasive responses to the questions hurled at him go to show how much of either his gross ignorance or his defense preparations—perhaps both—have made a monumental lackey out of him.
One thing was clear about his testimony, though. He resigned from office as undersecretary while the P724 million fertilizer project was on the roll. By the time the deed has been done, he was as free as a bird. Or so he thought. Call it anyway you like, but I see it as nothing but a premeditated attempt to wring his hands clean if the project gets foiled, a calculated move to deny himself of any responsibility in the long run. More to the point, any lawyer or any sane person at the least will tell you that flight is an admission of guilt. You fly to America the first instance you hear of a subpoena trailing your footsteps to your doorstep, you can hardly feign innocence there. You seek asylum in foreign shores while the rest of your fellowmen are demanding for your presence in a tumultuous time, not the least demanding for your head as you wish to convince yourself, you can hardly substitute the regard for playing puppet to this Garcified regime with the regard for honor and credibility. You do otherwise and you do the perpetrators of corruption a colossal favor.
The days to follow are certainly worth watching.
But going back to the film, it proves to us that our films can muscle it out with foreign films. Himala is one of the few gems in our film industry, standing at par with Lino Brocka's masterful works, if not outweighing the quality of movies shot from Hollywood to Bollywood. Some say the golden era of Philippine cinema is long past and gone, and I can't blame them for seeing things that way. You only have to look at the span of five years to a full decade's worth of the movies that we produce and you might find it difficult to scratch off the idea that our film industry has been on a rapid decline, plunging headfirst to the abyss. What with the rise of movies with explicit sex themes sporting titillating titles a few years ago, exploiting the human weakness or drive for perversity in exchange for a few measly profit. Talk about banging the bucks.
With the decline in local films produced annually in both quantity and quality, a film created more than two decades ago but was still able to bring home the bacon if not the whole swine looks more like, well, a miracle in these dire times. One is even tempted to add that sometimes you need miracles to believe in the impossible, but I can't seem to find any reason to say that it was not entirely impossible for Himala to make its own mark in world history. Quite on the contrary, it was entirely possible. In a country like ours where we have reached rock bottom, or where we're almost to the point of no return, there's no other way than up. In a nation where the only things shooting up constantly are the prices of commodities and the numbers of useless deaths—the heads of drug addicts floating in utter nirvana in their own godless heavens notwithstanding—the miracle of Himala is a slice of redemption.
And redemption does not come for free, which is why it's called redemption in the first place; you redeem something in exchange for another. Jocjoc Bolante seems unwilling to redeem at least his reputation, if there's still anything left of it, in exchange of stating the obvious. Maybe it does not matter to him anymore if his flesh is aging while his soul is burning and rotting in the fires of the netherworld as we speak. Sometimes it makes you wonder if there really is a heaven and a hell, and you wish the latter would surface in the plains of the earth and devour those who lie through their teeth. Walang himala? Well, maybe that's just what some of us are waiting for.
A miracle.
While at that, I can't help but recall the recent Senate probe on the fertilizer scam. Fresh from the United States, Jocelyn Bolante was bearded and grilled at the Senate floor. That came after he was admitted at St. Luke's Hospital for health reasons, confusing his digestive problems for a heart ailment. I do not know if human evolution is yet to see its better days, finding remedies for some stomachs reaching as high up as the chest. I do not know if that is a symptom of dementia either, but his age and white hairs do not seem to prove him any wiser. His evasive responses to the questions hurled at him go to show how much of either his gross ignorance or his defense preparations—perhaps both—have made a monumental lackey out of him.
One thing was clear about his testimony, though. He resigned from office as undersecretary while the P724 million fertilizer project was on the roll. By the time the deed has been done, he was as free as a bird. Or so he thought. Call it anyway you like, but I see it as nothing but a premeditated attempt to wring his hands clean if the project gets foiled, a calculated move to deny himself of any responsibility in the long run. More to the point, any lawyer or any sane person at the least will tell you that flight is an admission of guilt. You fly to America the first instance you hear of a subpoena trailing your footsteps to your doorstep, you can hardly feign innocence there. You seek asylum in foreign shores while the rest of your fellowmen are demanding for your presence in a tumultuous time, not the least demanding for your head as you wish to convince yourself, you can hardly substitute the regard for playing puppet to this Garcified regime with the regard for honor and credibility. You do otherwise and you do the perpetrators of corruption a colossal favor.
The days to follow are certainly worth watching.
But going back to the film, it proves to us that our films can muscle it out with foreign films. Himala is one of the few gems in our film industry, standing at par with Lino Brocka's masterful works, if not outweighing the quality of movies shot from Hollywood to Bollywood. Some say the golden era of Philippine cinema is long past and gone, and I can't blame them for seeing things that way. You only have to look at the span of five years to a full decade's worth of the movies that we produce and you might find it difficult to scratch off the idea that our film industry has been on a rapid decline, plunging headfirst to the abyss. What with the rise of movies with explicit sex themes sporting titillating titles a few years ago, exploiting the human weakness or drive for perversity in exchange for a few measly profit. Talk about banging the bucks.
With the decline in local films produced annually in both quantity and quality, a film created more than two decades ago but was still able to bring home the bacon if not the whole swine looks more like, well, a miracle in these dire times. One is even tempted to add that sometimes you need miracles to believe in the impossible, but I can't seem to find any reason to say that it was not entirely impossible for Himala to make its own mark in world history. Quite on the contrary, it was entirely possible. In a country like ours where we have reached rock bottom, or where we're almost to the point of no return, there's no other way than up. In a nation where the only things shooting up constantly are the prices of commodities and the numbers of useless deaths—the heads of drug addicts floating in utter nirvana in their own godless heavens notwithstanding—the miracle of Himala is a slice of redemption.
And redemption does not come for free, which is why it's called redemption in the first place; you redeem something in exchange for another. Jocjoc Bolante seems unwilling to redeem at least his reputation, if there's still anything left of it, in exchange of stating the obvious. Maybe it does not matter to him anymore if his flesh is aging while his soul is burning and rotting in the fires of the netherworld as we speak. Sometimes it makes you wonder if there really is a heaven and a hell, and you wish the latter would surface in the plains of the earth and devour those who lie through their teeth. Walang himala? Well, maybe that's just what some of us are waiting for.
A miracle.
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