And the MMFF 2006 best picture award goes to.... Enteng Kabisote 3!!!
Hmm. No surprise there.
It comes as no surprise to me either that the other two entries to the MMFF 2006 that I have seen were uninspiring and devoid of cinematic genius.
_______________
First stop: Shake, Rattle and Roll 8
Now, I have made a vow to watch every SRR movie that Mother Lily churns out come the holidays, since I saw the first one years ago on television. I still remember, with something akin to amazement, that last episode featuring a much younger Herbert Bautista fighting off a horrific-looking manananggal, played by the beautiful Techi Agbayani. It had been my first time to see the much-feared creature anywhere else, having not heard of it from anyone. And oh what an experience it was, despite our then black and white TV going wonky on us from time to time, to see the hero save his family from the creature, who was only hellbent on killing Herbert and his family after she had caught him watching her transform among the banana trees.
I was hooked from then on. I grew up watching the installments, and as a consequence, I became a die-hard fan of Manilyn Reynes (she of the 'Mr. Disco" fame and petite stature). Even before Sarah Michelle Gellar was awarded with the Scream Queen title, the Filipinos had Manilyn Reynes. And I always got a kick out of watching her go through her ordeals in the episodes that she was in--fending off a ravenous college professor (think Edu Manzano) she had been previously head over heels in love with, getting invited by Ana Roces to some godforsaken barrio fiesta somewhere and eventually outsmarting the aswangs who swarmed the place, running around like a crazed hen in a decrepit building somewhere with a monster in a white tux chasing after her--and my favorite--being laughed at by the likes of Ai Ai de las Alas (who got eaten halfway through the episode) and getting unlikely help from this tiyanak-slash-sirena creature called the undin.
I just had to watch the eight installment, you see.
And I came out of the moviehouse disappointed, of course.
For despite its huge popularity, I say that the SRR series should finally be shot in the head and laid to rest. Year after year, the stories have become so appalling and inane, with preposterous storylines, carboard characters, and ludicrous premises.
Episode 1 entitled '13th Floor' was so ridiculous that I had to calm down first and get a good bearing before finally settling back on my seat and going through the motions of watching a stupid episode. The only good thing about it was the presence of Janus del Prado, whom I have not seen since his last film called Sa Piling ng mga Aswang. What a cutie he's turned out to be! I urge Mother Lily to supply him with a ka-love team-- preferably someone gay. Joke. The story? Please. It was as hokey as Keanna Reeve's (whose name I still can't get over) boob job.
Episode 2 entitled "Yaya" (if I'm not mistaken, the Kris Aquino episode a few years back had the same title) is a perfect example of a movie-plot staple that I'd like to call "Wow! The good-looking guy, who just happens to be the not-so-good-looking female lead's college sweetheart or something, just happens to drive by, in that exact moment when said female lead is screaming her head off for help or is just about to become monster chow." Geez, not even the ethereal and talented Iza Izcaldo's presence caused some excitement.
The third episode called "LRT" features our own Scream Queen Manilyn Reynes, a rather pensive Keempee de Leon, and a monster whose costume was probably bought at some auction of props used in the filming of M. Night Shyamalan's The Village (both were strikingly similar, right up to their pointy ends). In fairness, the premise was actually unique. The idea that the LRT 2 poses threats not just from terrorists but also from things that go bump in the night is pretty nifty. For those who have not seen it yet, you will be in for two treats: guessing which LRT 2 station they're stranded in, and getting a perverse pleasure from watching Reynes' boobs do the jiggle when she starts running from the monster.
It was a pity that the episode ended in that fashion. It was truly uninspiring.
__________________
Second stop: ZsaZsa Saturnnah Ze Movie
Having failed to witness the musical, I had been anticipating the film since I first heard from a writer friend that Mother Lily was scouting for someone to write the script. Back then, I had a feeling that it would be really a great idea.
I was dead wrong.
Mother Lily should have done this: despite the commercial risks (although it would be a good thing to point that she had had three other freaking movies to generate income from!), she should have used the original cast from the musical, with the great Chris Martinez adapting from his own script. I heard from Paolo Manalo that the musical cast is really excellent.
Sure, Zsa Zsa Padilla was great. Chocolate was a little over the top, but OK. I know now that too much camp is not a good thing.
But do you want to know who really messed it up for me? That butterfly-toting Rustom "What was Carmina Villaroel thinking?" Padilla, that's who. He was OA, could not sing even if his life depended on it, and gave very little justice to Ada the Beautician's character. Somebody please pay for his acting lessons, as the poor sod is blissfully unaware that he's really bad.
____________________
The other entries are still being shown here in Zamboanga City. Next on my list is Cesar Montano's Ligalig and Star Cinema's Kasal, Kasali, Kasalo. I have hopes that these two at the very least will prove to be bearable, if not slightly entertaining.
Mabuhay (daw) ang pelikulang Pilipino.
Geez, I don't know about that.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Come on, Baby... Let's Go On a Sexcapade
Zamboanga's politicians amaze me to no end.
No sooner than I arrived here, a rather juicy gossip began circulating. You'll be glad to know that it does not involve me. I am a star, but I observe proper decorum and courtesy around these parts, so thank heavens my reputation is still spanking clean.
This gossip has a controversial spin to it, in that the person involved is rather high profile.
ASIDE: It is perhaps important to reiterate at this point a political science tidbit-- in a democratic country, the state tries to desperately escape from the clutches of the Church, as a curtailed husband is wont to do. The Church, like a nagging wife, does what she can to keep him. That's what marriage is all about.
The point of the aside is that in my beautiful and quaint city, things between the State and the Church have gone awry. To put everything in proper context, let me say now that the person who is the subject of this gossip belongs to the latter. And what makes it controversial is that it's about a sex video with this person in it.
I have seen this sex video myself, although I have not seen the person in my entire life yet. In it, a rather bulky guy (as of writing, people are still debating whether or not it is him) whom we shall fondly call ahm, Guy1 is performing oral sex on another guy--Guy2 naturally-- who, people say, had been one of Guy 1's ' favorites' (Guy 1 has filed extortion charges against Guy 2).
What people are saying about the video:
"Are you sure that's him? He hardly wears a red shirt."
"A lot of fat people look like him. So baka hindi siya 'yon."
"Blowjob ba ito? Maybe he's just eating something."
To which the plaintive answer usually is--"Oo. He's eating cock."
Kaloka, di ba?
Guy 1 is now saying that this whole brouhaha is nothing but the current local administration's idea of black propaganda, perpetuated for the sole reason of getting the majority's nod in the upcoming elections. See, Guy 1 plans to run for office as Mayor. He's also claiming that a certain elected official--a closet case also rumored to have the habit of eating, ahm, cock--had been caught on video with his pants down, too.
Kaloka again, di ba?
No sooner than I arrived here, a rather juicy gossip began circulating. You'll be glad to know that it does not involve me. I am a star, but I observe proper decorum and courtesy around these parts, so thank heavens my reputation is still spanking clean.
This gossip has a controversial spin to it, in that the person involved is rather high profile.
ASIDE: It is perhaps important to reiterate at this point a political science tidbit-- in a democratic country, the state tries to desperately escape from the clutches of the Church, as a curtailed husband is wont to do. The Church, like a nagging wife, does what she can to keep him. That's what marriage is all about.
The point of the aside is that in my beautiful and quaint city, things between the State and the Church have gone awry. To put everything in proper context, let me say now that the person who is the subject of this gossip belongs to the latter. And what makes it controversial is that it's about a sex video with this person in it.
I have seen this sex video myself, although I have not seen the person in my entire life yet. In it, a rather bulky guy (as of writing, people are still debating whether or not it is him) whom we shall fondly call ahm, Guy1 is performing oral sex on another guy--Guy2 naturally-- who, people say, had been one of Guy 1's ' favorites' (Guy 1 has filed extortion charges against Guy 2).
What people are saying about the video:
"Are you sure that's him? He hardly wears a red shirt."
"A lot of fat people look like him. So baka hindi siya 'yon."
"Blowjob ba ito? Maybe he's just eating something."
To which the plaintive answer usually is--"Oo. He's eating cock."
Kaloka, di ba?
Guy 1 is now saying that this whole brouhaha is nothing but the current local administration's idea of black propaganda, perpetuated for the sole reason of getting the majority's nod in the upcoming elections. See, Guy 1 plans to run for office as Mayor. He's also claiming that a certain elected official--a closet case also rumored to have the habit of eating, ahm, cock--had been caught on video with his pants down, too.
Kaloka again, di ba?
Friday, November 24, 2006
Refuge
It's not so bad.
I think I am all right. There is a peaceful quietness in the things I do, a semblance of order, of knowing where my feet lead me to everyday. I realize that sometimes routine keeps me safe.
There are people I'd rather not see, people whose collective presence sucks in everything that is safe. People whose mouths are like barbed-wires. Careful not to get too near.
And then there are people whose displays of the mundane--concerns about getting fat, which food to gobble up, the next trip to the flea market--I first had shunned but later on embraced. Not as a sheer act of desperation, but of celebration. I have learned to revel in the ordinariness of things and people.
One said, "Learn to enjoy the feeling of sitting with a soft cushion behind you, longer than is necessary."
So I'll let the world spin and whirl around me. I am sitting still.
I think I am all right. There is a peaceful quietness in the things I do, a semblance of order, of knowing where my feet lead me to everyday. I realize that sometimes routine keeps me safe.
There are people I'd rather not see, people whose collective presence sucks in everything that is safe. People whose mouths are like barbed-wires. Careful not to get too near.
And then there are people whose displays of the mundane--concerns about getting fat, which food to gobble up, the next trip to the flea market--I first had shunned but later on embraced. Not as a sheer act of desperation, but of celebration. I have learned to revel in the ordinariness of things and people.
One said, "Learn to enjoy the feeling of sitting with a soft cushion behind you, longer than is necessary."
So I'll let the world spin and whirl around me. I am sitting still.
Monday, November 20, 2006
In Defense of Poetry
Earlier in Literary Theory, the class, in reaction to the rigorous methods of the New Criticism approach, demanded to know the importance of analyzing a text, a poem specifically. Why the need to read it? Can something like this be used when we, as one of them said, venture forth into the "real world" (whatever she meant by that was lost on me, though)?
I think the questions were very valid, and I am glad to have heard such reactions from them-- which only means the struggle to find meaning is not so far behind.
I mentioned to them why I think poetry is important, in that poetry is in everything that we do, see, feel, hear and touch. Poetry is the 'untapped' ability of everyone to see everything around him in a new way. Thus, to extricate himself away from poetry, from this untapped resource, is unnecessary and futile, not to mention impossible. The other reason, of course, was that it was what the course required them to do (which almost immediately made Ken react violently).
But here's something, a little gem, which I hope may suffice:
Plato, the Greek-est among Greeks, once said that everything must aspire to the truth. We can say that of poetry too. But poetry takes a forked road though, for it aspires to beauty first, finds it, and in so doing points to the truth of things.
Poetry seeks beauty in everything-- even in the midst of corruption and decay.
I think that poetry seeks for that inner sanctum in all of us. Call it spirituality. Call it conscience. Call it the soul. Whatever form it takes, poetry, like roses in the summer, opens its buds and invites every one to partake of its nectar. Poetry demands time, too.
What use then does poetry have?
Its quite simple, actually.
It allows us a peek, a glimpse of the beautiful, of the divine, in whatever we do. For only poetry encompasses all things, all subjects, every emotion.
As we grow, find jobs, marry people, have kids, it is easy to lose that glimpse, that peek into the beauty of things. Poetry, in all its wonder, retraces back our roots for us, our origins as humans. For to be human is to be intimately close to feelings, emotions, the pathos of humanity. Poetry brings back the memory of a warm hand, a soft kiss, the sun on our backs, a glimpse of a starry night sky, the giddiness of youth.
Little things, one may say.
Yet what happens in the end?
We realize that upscale jobs and an opulent lifestyle are ephemeral things. Poetry gives us back the little things. And rightfully so.
After all, it's the little things that count.
I think the questions were very valid, and I am glad to have heard such reactions from them-- which only means the struggle to find meaning is not so far behind.
I mentioned to them why I think poetry is important, in that poetry is in everything that we do, see, feel, hear and touch. Poetry is the 'untapped' ability of everyone to see everything around him in a new way. Thus, to extricate himself away from poetry, from this untapped resource, is unnecessary and futile, not to mention impossible. The other reason, of course, was that it was what the course required them to do (which almost immediately made Ken react violently).
But here's something, a little gem, which I hope may suffice:
Plato, the Greek-est among Greeks, once said that everything must aspire to the truth. We can say that of poetry too. But poetry takes a forked road though, for it aspires to beauty first, finds it, and in so doing points to the truth of things.
Poetry seeks beauty in everything-- even in the midst of corruption and decay.
I think that poetry seeks for that inner sanctum in all of us. Call it spirituality. Call it conscience. Call it the soul. Whatever form it takes, poetry, like roses in the summer, opens its buds and invites every one to partake of its nectar. Poetry demands time, too.
What use then does poetry have?
Its quite simple, actually.
It allows us a peek, a glimpse of the beautiful, of the divine, in whatever we do. For only poetry encompasses all things, all subjects, every emotion.
As we grow, find jobs, marry people, have kids, it is easy to lose that glimpse, that peek into the beauty of things. Poetry, in all its wonder, retraces back our roots for us, our origins as humans. For to be human is to be intimately close to feelings, emotions, the pathos of humanity. Poetry brings back the memory of a warm hand, a soft kiss, the sun on our backs, a glimpse of a starry night sky, the giddiness of youth.
Little things, one may say.
Yet what happens in the end?
We realize that upscale jobs and an opulent lifestyle are ephemeral things. Poetry gives us back the little things. And rightfully so.
After all, it's the little things that count.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Fear and Loathing in Zamboanga
I have yet to see him.
And while I am relieved that my eyes have not fallen on him since my arrival, I am certain that the inevitable will happen. It is like the waiting one does, heart in a vise-like grip, for the flash of blue lightning to arrive after a loud clap of thunder on stormy nights. I know that his face will illumine the dark corners of forgotten memories, even bring them back. But I fear it will be a sad homecoming, painful even.
And I curse myself again and again for doing what I did.
It is strange how a few years of absence can alter the heart, render it a slave to the ravages of time.
The funny thing is, while I have not seen for myself the changed man that he is now, I still see him everywhere. I see him, his usual grin in check, in the greased face of a child, in the way an older brother helps his sister cross the road, in the laughter of a bunch of college kids in a nearby kiosk. All these, while he is far away, oblivious to the tearing that happens within me.
I wonder what expression his own face will show upon seeing me. He knows me. I know him too. Not in the ways that are the business of typical acquaintances, but something else that is deeper, rare. Should I turn a corner somewhere in town, someday soon, and I'd bump into him, I wouldn't be surprised.
It would be like the old days, may even feel like the old days. But different too somehow.
I can only hope he has forgotten everything.
Including me.
And while I am relieved that my eyes have not fallen on him since my arrival, I am certain that the inevitable will happen. It is like the waiting one does, heart in a vise-like grip, for the flash of blue lightning to arrive after a loud clap of thunder on stormy nights. I know that his face will illumine the dark corners of forgotten memories, even bring them back. But I fear it will be a sad homecoming, painful even.
And I curse myself again and again for doing what I did.
It is strange how a few years of absence can alter the heart, render it a slave to the ravages of time.
The funny thing is, while I have not seen for myself the changed man that he is now, I still see him everywhere. I see him, his usual grin in check, in the greased face of a child, in the way an older brother helps his sister cross the road, in the laughter of a bunch of college kids in a nearby kiosk. All these, while he is far away, oblivious to the tearing that happens within me.
I wonder what expression his own face will show upon seeing me. He knows me. I know him too. Not in the ways that are the business of typical acquaintances, but something else that is deeper, rare. Should I turn a corner somewhere in town, someday soon, and I'd bump into him, I wouldn't be surprised.
It would be like the old days, may even feel like the old days. But different too somehow.
I can only hope he has forgotten everything.
Including me.
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