Fear eats the soul

Coming practically out of left field, more precisely by way of Canada, is the movie produced by an obscure Filipino-Canadian outfit, entitled Ang Pamana (The Inheritance), directed by Romeo Candido. The movie digs up old superstitions in the native country as encountered by a pair of balikbayan Fil-Canadians following the death of their grandmother, herself no slouch when it comes to communing with the spirits, benevolent or otherwise.

Ang Pamana, with its largely English dialogue due to unavoidable circumstances, could well encapsule a kind of Candido’s apocalypse regarding the influence of superstition and folk beliefs on the lives of Filipinos, no matter how physically removed they are from the homeland. Yet the director, who we assume is also a Pinoy transplanted to North America, has no use for cheap sensational shots, and instead hews closely to a supernatural hyper-realism of how fear can eat the soul. But what makes the film truly frightening, and so a notch or two above other Filipino movies of the same horror genre, is because the protagonist survives and bucks the odds not so much out of prayer as an uncanny ability to get on the good side of the elementals.

Phoemela Baranda gives a fair account of herself as the materialistic home-based cousin who virtually banishes the ghost of her grandma from the estate the late woman had bequeathed to her grandkids on the condition that they take care of their retarded uncle, son of their lolo with the family yaya, or so we understood the convoluted family bloodlines.

And so the kapre, the nuno sa punso, the manananggal make an impressive fabulistic appearance on the big screen, with a distinctive native touch enough to rival those Japanese horror classics: The Ring, The Grudge, Dark Water. Ang Pamana though would have no need for a Hollywood rendition, which gives it a built-in edge. Technical wise, the sound and special effects are state-of-the-art and clear as ice, a world beater in these crucial aspects that could make or break a scream into bloodcurdling catharsis or flatulent corniness.

Special mention should go to the actor who played the retarded tiyuhin, with his convincing "ang ganda ni Anna, ang guwapo ni Jonjon" spiel. He is like the village idiot thrown into the thick of things, and becomes a sort of ballast to keep proceedings from flying off the handle.

The Fil-Canadian cousins as played by Darrel Gamotin and Nadine Villasin also stand out for a pair of relative unknowns, at least in these here parts. But we’ve read that they have a solid background in theater in North America.

Candido is also a one-man wrecking crew as editor and composer of the soundtrack, many of the songs with a touch of youthful MTV as befits the characters.

We may as well do an inverted paraphrase of Stevie Wonder as regards Ang Pamana: if we refuse to believe in things that we already understand, then sure as night follows day we’ll suffer. Superstition barely scratches the surface of the folkloric creatures of midnight.

On the far side of nostalgia, indeed more than just a trip down memory lane, is the Dawn band’s quasi-bio pic, Tulad ng Dati, directed by Mike Sandejas. It is about second chances and though one can’t go home again, there are tender mercies waiting to be found if one’s heart is in the right place.

Best Picture in this year’s Cinemalaya film festival, the movie relies heavily on the band’s music for the past two decades. But even those who are hardly fans of the band’s sound – a kind of post-New Wave, U2-like mode of the late ’80s – would begin to understand as the film unrolls that this is the soundtrack of a generation.

It was a generation that wasn’t exactly lost but then again hardly found, raised on the death throes of Jingle magazine and the music of the Waterboys, the Smiths, Violent Femmes, cassette tapes of which could be had at the A2Z music store near the bridge of Anonas Extension, a stone’s throw away from where the ’70s Bistro is now.

The Dawn was a classic rock ’n roll band when it came to self-mythology and early deaths, and Tulad ng Dati is dedicated to the memory of its founding lead guitarist Teddy Diaz, murdered in a tough neighborhood in Quezon City while on a visit to his girlfriend.

He thus became like the local version of Duanne Allman, Jimi Hendrix, et. al, similar guitar heroes who died in their prime and left us all wondering where the music would have gone if they had played on. Rock as usual offers no excuses and in its cruelest manifestations, feeds on its young.

Sandejas’ film is a fictionalized biography of the band, the plot anchored on lead vocalist Jett Pangan’s suffering from amnesia after an attack by burglars, and who upon recovering can only recall up to the year 1988, the year Diaz and part of the Dawn’s music died.

It’s a roller-coaster ride from thereon, with the band members as passable actors considering that they aren’t pros. Replacement bassist Buddy Zabala, formerly of the Eraserheads, has lines that hit the spot and throb with the rest of the band. Guitarist Francis Reyes gets in a few licks of his own specially against the axe player of a fictional band called Ratbunitata. Drummer JB Leonor already appears middle aged but does not stop keeping time, and even original bassist Caloy Balcells has a cameo for old times’ sake.

Ping Medina as Diaz’s ghost is spectacular and eerie, while Agot Isidro as Pangan’s wife Beth is at her simpatica best.

Sometimes it is hard to tell which is fiction and which part is real, and this works for the good of the movie itself, a possible new genre that could be likened to visual creative non-fiction.

The benchmark for rock films is still Scorsese’s The Last Waltz, but Tulad ng Dati is a modest triumph as well and admirable for its honesty in capturing the often topsy-turvy culture of Pinoy rock ’n roll.