I woke up this morning with an online post pontificating how we should be thankful for the Marcoses because, come to think of it (their words, not mine), they cared for Philippine cinema. We know what follows that thought: the Experimental Cinema of the Philippines, the once-First Daughter and the Martial Law as the Gilded Age of Culture, whatever we mean by the gilding. There is that word “culture” of course—and this is our frustration about those who teach Culture (the monolithic one) and not cultures, the ;atter being the concept that admits to varieties of the subversive, the discrepant, the peripheral.
What are the symptoms of this mindset about Culture? There are many. There is the notion of a cultural center and the proof is that tombstone by the sea—a dull, chilly, fascist monument to everything that is abrasively central and arrogantly patronage-based control of aesthetics and funds. The building is no mere structure; it is an ethnographic authority, or it has made itself into one. Then there is the greatest lie of all: the Nation.
We seem resigned to the notion that we are a nation, and our arts are united by that motherhood construct. Only when we look askance at the accomplishments of various groups outside Manila or the institutions which, ordained, matter because they are located in Manila, that we realize how this “Nation” murders the margins. The “Nation” because it does not define the realities out there is hard-put to embrace the excellence or the singularities of other artistic endeavors.
Thus we need to contend with language or languages. At the center, academics struggle over the “Fs” and the “Ps” in naming the so-called national language. And yet, outside the DepEd and the CHED, no one really cares about the F of things. If it sounds like an expletive, it does because any concern about nationhood is as fake as the nose of the next hot celebrity.
Memory is another dragon-slayer: we kill the monsters of our past because that is the only way we can, as in those endlessly silly rom-coms, move on. And so we forget the dictatorship. And so we pity this Old Lady in red terno, nauseatedly forgetting that even the well-credentialed technocrats conscripted to serve the delusion of a New Society trembled when she held a pointer and wrote on the white board conspicuously present when she presided the City of Man. Oo naman. If Manila was the Ever-Loyal City under the Spanish (meaning it was most subservient), then it morphed into the City of Man under the office with the most dubious and preposterous name, Ministry of Human Settlements. How can we easily forget! Our template for political decision and our model for appropriate social change were not our leaders (thank God!) but the movies, the commercial and funny movies that made a killing in the box-office at the expense of good taste. In effect (or maybe I should spell that “epek”?), we seek closure rather than shout condemnation; we’d rather be in tears and lousy sentiments than fight for our tomorrows.
But, just like that sudden outburst of memory of how the dictatorship was good for Philippine cinema in whatever limited form, the end of the year or the last day of this year is always a time for reckoning.
The field is open for judgment, especially given that the feng shui experts have not spoken up yet. Well, as RuPaul bristles, they better work because in 2019 they spoke too soon about the glory of 2020 that when the pandemic fell upon the world, no earth magic could mediate between death and the then yet unseen horizon of medical salvation.
As the world turns, what accomplishments can we think of in the field of films and the arts? Let us be succinct and specific.
The good news: regional cinema is alive even if it remains a dirty label for those who still cling to the misguided and illusory national cinema. At the height of lockdowns, the 13th Cinema Rehiyon was held. It was done online but it served its major function: that of linking up the various regional cinema groups scattered all over the archipelago. At the helm of the project was the executive national committee of cinema of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts. The wisdom of the group under Dr. Rolando Tolentino was to execute the program by way of another group—a regional group—called the Negros Foundation. Theater stalwart Tanya Lopez and multi-awarded filmmaker Elvert Bañares were just some of the people who worked on the project.
The same group was behind another endeavor of the National Committee on Cinema, the so-called ECQ cinema, a film festival with filmmakers confronting the pandemic and the isolation caused by it. Receiving small grants from the committee, the films in the festival went on to win recognitions abroad. This effort was followed by Sine Halaga, again a non-competitive film festival under the NCCA where the selected filmmakers did films exploring sets of values practiced by Filipinos coming from different class structures. These systems of values were culled by way of a research.
The truth of the matter is that films and arts from the regions are alive.
As the month draws to a close, the Metro Manila Film Festival has been revived. Observers are talking about how the audiences are not excited with the films fielded. The most I can say is let us be kind to one another. Even artistic pursuits deserve the kindness of strangers.
Before the fireworks are lighted, let us pause and pray that as much as we love the eagles and egrets, the ducks and the hornbills, we cannot unlove those who died serving our country, especially if we do not have the courage to do the same. The universe is always listening. Be careful, we may wake up to find ourselves turn into a legal tender—as rusty coins or stinking old paper bills become unable to foot any of our dreams.