Bottle, gun, paint, film

This year marks the 25th anniversary of the first acknowledged Filipino digital film, “Still lives” by Jon Red a.k.a. Juan Pula, which at the time it was released in 1999 was unaware it was ushering in a whole new independent film movement.

On hindsight, many years after the hullabaloo that was the war on drugs, the 90-minute film seems more prescient than ever, indeed well ahead of its time, and puts into proper sometimes humorous perspective our wrestling with substance abuse among other demons in disguise.

On the third Friday of October, “Still lives” had a special screening at the Dengcar Theater of Mowelfund Institute, and in fact still runs on an endless loop at the Superduper Art Gallery on 11th Jamboree till the fourth week of October, alongside what is possibly the first one-man exhibit of Jon Red as painter, “Bote, baril, pintura, pelikula,” a sort of double whammy in celebration of independent cinema and painting. No holds barred, as promised, both in Dengcar and Superduper.

The thing is even if you might have watched the indie feature in its maiden run in 1999, chances are you’d appreciate it much more now as wizened, post cynical, reformed substance abuser, with its broken down narrative and stationary digital camera courtesy of fellow filmmaker Chuck Escasa, such that you can’t help but chuckle and breathe the occasional sigh of relief at having survived those wild and crazy times.

“Still lives” revolves around the goings on of a shabu pushing gang in their safehouse somewhere in the godforsaken city, led by dirty old capo a tutti Badong (the late Rey Ventura) with his beauteous moll Georgia (Ynez Veneracion), who has the occasional fling with gang underling Enteng (Nonie Buencamino), whose dialogue with friend Paul (Alan Paule) opens the film and frames it rightfully comparing sex with coffee and death with the sea, while a painting of a lone eye (most likely Red’s) stares back at the viewer in the background beside a cabinet with mirror.

It’s tempting to say that the film abounds with symbolisms, which is just as well as if to compensate for the straitjacketed camera angle, but herein lies the gist of independent cinema, because borne out of experimentations of young dudes with camera like the Red brothers, even if it is actually structured like a novel or short story, with intermittent segues or improvisational runs, only to pull the viewer back somewhat rudely to the main plot.

A star-studded cast fills the proceedings, led by Joel Torre as narrator, speaking to camera as if in a confessional, and Soliman Cruz as spokesman for the wonders of shabu or crystal meth or poor man’s cocaine, not to mention a cameo by then little known Mon Confiado, driven by ample use of the Mike Hanopol-penned Juan dela Cruz song Kagatan and wondrous melodic takes of Badong himself doing What am I living for? a cappella, the gang horsing around in that limited but inspired set designed by the director’s late brother Danny Red, no where else can visual storytelling get more from less. 

Would it be too far-fetched to say the germ of “Still lives” started with a short film by the same director, shown at an independent and alternative film festival at the Cultural Center of the Philippines sometime in the early ‘90s, “S” again about the wonders and self-destructing capabilities of, as usual starring National High School for the Arts batchmate Soliman as a weirded-out barber slain by his client, why, Mokyo of “Batibot” fame would have nothing on this one.

You can try analyze “Still lives” to death, drag out all the carcasses for belated postmortems, and yet there’s no escape from the inevitable of framing it against the drug war, the investigation of which has reached international proportions courtesy of a UN court, and as sidetrack or ad lib too you can digress to the pandemic hangover, the face shields and masks among other foils to the virus.

In the post-screening interviews and talkback with audience as is customary in Mowelfund, Red pays tribute to his fellow workers in the film that unconsciously opened a deluge of filmmaking possibilities, including an anecdote related by Escasa that the independent film community is so small one should help one another, even if it means taking a call from a kakosa in distress at 5 in the morning.

Red also mentions another high school batchmate the late painter Alwin Reamillo, who wouldn’t be miscast as one of the shabu gang members who engaged in a Mexican standoff near film’s end, only that the long-haired young man wasn’t at auditions. The director too denies that there was no script for “Still lives,” on the contrary there was, he just let his actors run riot on the improv and dialogue, the original 20 cusswords in script becomes 100 on film, give or take a few edits.

One almost wonders where Ynez is, ditto her screaming hilarious parlorista friend, now that the film has held up so well, you can erase all the evidence and cover tracks but memory stands out, like sea and death, coffee and sex, and a gibbous moon fading over nearby Lantana.