Rocking supremely

A curious happenstance, at the very least: to watch a couple of Filipino films, both directed by friends, within 48 hours of one another, and find it remarkable that both use the same familiar lullaby.

In Sonata, directed by compadre Peque Gallage and Lore Reyes, it’s featured in two scenes — the first time quite appropriately, “literally,” with an infant in a duyan and the mother rendering the folk song in Hiligaynon, the second as part of the final extended scene, with Cherie Gil as a has-been diva in a reprise of the song as plaintive farewell in a graveyard.     

In Itim, the first feature film by veteran advertising commercial director Mike Alcazaren, it’s simply featured in the sound track, towards film’s end. And we learn later that the voice belongs to Direk Mike’s soul partner, Lizanne Padilla-Alcazaren.

It was Lizanne who provided a friend and me our tickets for the preem at a Resort World moviehouse. But that’s not why I’ll say that she has an excellent voice. As far as the appropriateness of the lullaby for the film is concerned, however, it can only be said to be slightly questionable beyond the obvious symbolism gleaned from the lyrics. If a viewer understands them, that is.

“Ili-ili tulog anay,/ Wala diri imo nanay./ Kadto tienda bakal papay./ ili-ili tulog anay.// Mata ka na,ÒÒÒ/ tabangan mo/
ikarga ang nakompra ko/ kay bug-at man sing putos ko/ tabangan mo ako anay.”

Translation: “Sleep a while, little one./ Your mom’s not here./ She went to the store to buy some bread./ Sleep a while, little one.// You are awake,/ come and help/ carry the things I bought/ because it is heavy,/ help me little one.”

The song is peripherally apt for Itim’s story, of a painter (played impressively by Ian Veneracion) who does forgeries until he turns color-blind owing to a vehicular accident. He undergoes, or seems to, harrowing episodes that inflict psychological horror — on his own dominantly central character as well as the viewers.

I better say this now: it’s not exactly enjoyable entertainment. Well, not all films have to be such, I’ll grant that. But this genre is just not my cuppa tea. It’s effectively oppressive; I’ll acknowledge that. But since the peeps involved happen to be friends, I should honestly report that as far as the thematic concern and basic storyline go, I find it rather modest or spare, (even) if reeking with literary devices. We are expected to read between the lines, and play a game of spot the symbol or reference or allusion.

Ili-ili’s lyrics are thus made appropriate: the protagonist has been asleep, and has now awakened to the realization that… what? That everything that was filmed so aesthetically as nightmarish episodes had just happened as extended parts of a bad dream?

I feel shortchanged a bit here, then, in terms of narrative rationale and structure. The concept, the inherent irony, the story itself reads as a short story, of an awakening, of finally seeing the light of positive white — in which case the extensions may just be seen as lovely self-indulgence.

Most certainly, Puti’s technical merits are outstanding, deserving as they did those three awards won at the end of the Cine Filipino Indie fest — for cinematography, sound, and production design.

Heartiest and gladdest congratulations are in order for cinematographer Boy Yñiguez, surely the best in the biz for his meticulous “painting with light” — not only by way of technical finesse but essentially the sheer creativity he imposes on each scene, each shot.

 That episode where the protagonist is buried in the ground, with only his head visible, the stark landscape of white around him awash with surrealism — it stands as most memorable indeed, as visual meme that’s a paean to dream worlds.

Also admirable is Direk Mike’s own brand of meticulousness or kakulitan. He obviously wanted to tell a story he had been aching to tell for sometime now — and he did so with painstaking fluorish. The gestural conduct, the texture enhancing each scene, the efficient pacing, the herding of all actors into understated performances, the music and sound elements, why, even the pursuit of oppressive measures of horrific constriction are all obviously held together under one tyrannical baton of orchestration — for which, kudos galore.

I hope however that Mike Alcazaren’s next venture becomes as light and cheery as his ever-smiling mien. Now that he may already have exorcised his legion of daemons since Psycho 101, and already paid homage to iconic influences such as Mike de Leon with that precedent counterpoint Itim, as well as Ingmar Bergman, Hitchcock, Kubrick, Japanese surrealism and then some, he can go on to exercise his evident gifts as a filmmaker — one whose audience will be both illuminated and entertained, by material that’s brighter than scary tones of gray and even more terrifying white.

As for Sonata, how do I laud a precocious godson who’s credited with the story and screenplay? Wanggo Gallaga, yer da man! You used to be a boy, a fledgeling poet, but now I’m so happy to note that you’ve become coeval to your own dad as far as blessing us with fine cinema.

Once again Peque and Lore display the chemistry and film mastery that brighten up nostalgia itself, of all things Ilonggo inclusive of haciendas, of sugarcane chewed and spat out at unlikely targets, of boyhood that glories in the splendor of friendships and rituals. 

Cherie Gil is consummate as the fallen opera star whose memories of Paris prohibit her from returning there as a has-been who has lost her voice. But for a boy visiting from Manila, she resuscitates herself from alcoholism and mounts an excerpt from Madame Butterfly on the balcony of her ancestral home, thus enrapturing her newfound friend and everyone else in the milieu more than vicinity.

Thus revived in spirit, she joins the spectators at a softball match that stands as the other memorable highlight in this film. The rapture of lyricism and the fun in human games: these are Gallaga & Reyes’ supreme metier.

I would have to quibble with the extended climactic scene, however. Despite Mark Gary’s worthy cinematography and Manet Dayrit’s commendable editing, I found it excessively melodramatic. Two separable instances of weepy closure between two sets of characters are threaded through, ineffectively I thought. Maybe Gil’s character shouldn’t have been part of the graveyard ensemble while the first reconciliation was conducted. She could have appeared later, on her own, and sung her Ili-ili as solo apparition.

Oh, heck, I dunno; that’s only me, always finding lugubriousness cringe-worthy, I guess. But there’s enough, indeed so much in this film to adore (inclusive of comadre Madie Gallaga’s performance). And that pastorally joyous scene of the cart on the railroad tracks bearing the diva and the two boys (both terrific actors, but especially the older fellow) is a triumph beyond glorious sunsets and ineffable bonding.

I do hope both Sonata and Puti are rescheduled in theaters nationwide. They are only two films of the many — as I understand it, but have yet to find time to fully gorge on — which are already being said to manifest, more than herald, yet another golden age for Pinoy cinema. Dark or bright, they make us proud.     

Shoutout! You better catch a playdate! Rock Supremo was thoroughly enjoyable that night a son and I watched it at the CCP Little Theater, the only night so far when eight of the 11 rock bands and singers involved performed live onstage — bookending the wonderful ensemble that is Ballet Philippines.

It’s educational (without pandering too much to the excessive notions that Andres Bonifacio ought to be declared as our national hero and/or first President), it’s highly entertaining, and it’s so well put together as a rocking supreme collab among Pinoy entertainers of the first water.

Congratulations to librettist Nicolas Pichay, choreographers Paul Alexander Morales (also the director), Alden Lugnasin and Dwight Rodrigazo, musical director Francis de Veyra, and the instigator and moving spirit Gang Badoy of Rock Ed Philippines who spearheaded and shepherded the production — from having the musicians undertake history lessons from the National Historical Institute to getting everyone on the same rocking page of jubilation.

That includes Radioactive Sago Project, Peso Movement, Kai Honsasan, Rico Blanco, Dong Abay, Ebe Dancel, Perodiko, Sandwich, Pedicab, Tarsaius and Gloc9.

Musicians and dancers and theater adepts are all in this together. That night, the encore courtesy of Radioactive Sago Project with the inimitable Lourd De Veyra of some crazy planets was a rousing, rollicking medley that started with Sway (to which the ballet dancers cha-cha’d) and segued through cwazy lyrics and some scat rap all the way to Astro Cigarettes.

“Walang basagan ng trip, suaveng-suave at mabango, Hoy, Emilio!” atbp. helped served up neo-history beyond the romance of Lakambini and Boni’s bolo or the fratricide between Magdiwang and Magdalo. 

Yesterday marked the last performance in what is now hoped to have been only the initial run. Rock Supemo should be restaged not only in Metro Manila but throughout our merry archipelago. In this season of apparent travails involving pork (and those who’ve shamelessly benefited from it as well as those whose religion prohibits it), we can still keep proving that it’s more fun where we are, in our unique emo-cracy.

We just can’t help it. We rock supremely.