• Release date: November 1982
• Director: Richard Attenborough
• Starring: Ben Kingsley, Rohini Hattangadi, Roshan Seth, Pradeep Kumar, Saeed Jaffrey 
• Genre: Historical drama
• Star rating: 8/10

From the beginning, the film alerts its audiences. Accurately capturing history would be too daunting to summarize into a three-hour cinematic piece. Instead, to obtain the true spirit of the person through selected episodes of importance would suffice. It may hold to the simplest of biographies, but when one aspires to adapt the story of one of the most important nationalist icons of post-colonial Asia, his creative process must proceed with caution. 

Gandhi (1982) embraces it with goodwill intentions and titanic ambitions, albeit with a dash of dubiously Western perceptions.

Firstly, here is the statement of the obvious: Ben Kingsley is the core of the opus. His effortless transfiguration into Mahatma Gandhi will keep its viewers glued to the screen with fascination.

The key to his praiseworthy talent is to assimilate himself into the rural and marginalized fringes of British India. (For those unaware, he is half-Indian himself). With excellence, Ben physically morphs at a gradual pace throughout the film, from a prim-and-proper, Westernized attorney to a meekly ascetic activist for his oppressed compatriots. Likewise, he delivers his dialogue with an eloquence that is quite uncompromising yet benevolent and is paired convincingly with an altering accent that sheds away the Englishman and brings out the true Indian within.

But Gandhi is not just a lone figure of Indian culture. He is a phenomenon and a movement. To portray such, it must be big and loud, and the hundreds of thousands of Indian extras speak for themselves. Size does matter here to project a revolutionary culture that audiences could bear witness to. Adding to the realism is the mixture of the optimistic expectations for peaceful partition from colonial rule and the bloodstained reality of attaining independence and its hotly debated applications. The film acknowledges the imperfections of the revolts but also gives due recognition to the significant impact.

Nonetheless, do take this cinematic attempt on Asian history with a grain of salt. (The clever reference is unintended). Notice the Messianic framing of this biopic.

There are clear parallelisms of Gandhi’s allies to that of the Twelve Apostles.

There is a constant reference to Christian vocabularies and morality.

There is also the patterning of Gandhi’s martyr mannerisms to the Passion of Christ.

Even the unblemished flawlessness of the eponymous subject’s characterization is obvious.

The resemblances are uncanny. Be it coincidental or not, these elements felt more like methods to pander a Western and Christian viewer than to familiarize a foreign hero in a genuine, local context. In fairness, though, it is not done with malicious purpose.

As is, this historical biopic has served its intentions. There are reasons to see what Gandhi has contributed to politics and society in the post-modern milieu. Film is the platform to reflect and to immortalize this broad reality. At the same time, however, it is still designed as an amusement. Entertainment is not a means to replace education.

Perhaps Gandhi should be best seen as an introduction to a piece of history rather than a conclusive depiction. Its historiographical take is dependent on its audiences to read, to learn, and to debate, both before and after viewing this motion picture. If the people took discourse and action, then Gandhi had fulfilled its mission, as most history films should.

• Release date: December 17, 2004
• Director: Brad Silberling
• Starring: Jim Carrey, Emily Browning, Liam Aiken, Meryl Streep, Jude Law, Kara and Shelby Hoffman
• Genre: Black comedy, Mystery
• Star rating: 6.75/10

If you are interested in watching dreary narratives or are painstakingly observant with adaptation faithfulness, this film may or may not be for you. How can one tell if you may ask? Just look at the title: Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events (2004). For one, it may be called a misnomer, a wrong name. Yes, it is a chronicle of near consecutive misgivings, but it is also far from unenticing and not as unbearable as witnessing gore or cringe. At the same time, it could describe a few of its evident faults, thus hindering it from betterment.

And it first begins with visualization. Originally founded in the written words of the enigmatic sleuth/journalist Lemony Snicket (pen name of author Daniel Handler), the book faces its first obstacle to reincarnate itself into the big screen. It is one thing to imagine written literature, but it is completely another to reproduce it on film. Ask yourself this: when you read one’s novel, how do you envision it? What about everyone else? The answers may vary greatly that it proves the essentiality of searching for a unanimously agreed picture.

Suffice to say, the world of the Baudalaires was generally well depicted: a 19th century America decorated with Victorian-style architecture and Tim Burton-esque aesthetics that blend two opposing tones, gothic yet endearing to juvenile eyes.

These vibes are further embraced by the cast performances, particularly by Jim Carrey in one of his most transformative performances of his career. The role of Count Olaf is tailor-made for this famed, crazed comedian, yet there is something more nuanced this time with his hullabaloo theatrics. As he further explored the more adult side of his potential in this period (Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind, The Truman Show, etc.), his humorous oddity is now balanced and fused almost seamlessly with subtly sinister demeanors, resulting in Carrey’s interpretation that, changes aside, feels somehow still faithful to the pretentious, talentless, and rapacious fiend that was Count Olaf of the books.

It is no wonder the Baudalaires felt petrified and cautious, but they are unluckily victims of another elephant in the room. From the trailers to the posters, one thing is made clear: this is a Jim Carrey movie…except it did not have to be. The focus on the woeful Baudalaires is a tad overshadowed by the screen presence of Jim or even the adult leads, though, to be fair, they are not entirely neglected. Any short moment of poignancy, relief, tension, and triumph was justly reserved and well-executed by Emily Browning, Liam Aiken, and Hoffman twin sisters. Just imagine if more time and effort were invested in these potential wunderkinds.

Regardless, there is still a considerable commitment to follow Snicket’s reported tale. How much of it was kept faithfully is subjected to polarizing debate. On the one hand, its mise-en-scene is a product of trade-offs to condense three novels in almost an hour and a half, sans the end credits; events are omitted, added, and even rearranged to form a plot more appropriate to one climactic film than to an episodic series. On the other hand, it captures that spirit, or the very reason the young and young-at-heart came to read a rather depressing journey, and it best shows that appreciation in its heartfelt ending that feels like it is addressed to its audiences.

Whether you forgive the filmmakers for such changes, major or subtle, is preferential. Almost sixteen years on, another opportunity arose once more to try to adapt it in the form of a Netflix series, but that feel-good childhood nostalgia that this film offers hopefully shall remain for long.

At times, the world can seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe us when we say that there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events may in fact be the first steps of a journey.

Violet reading the letter of the Baudalaire parents

• Release date: April 2, 1968
• Director: Stanley Kubrick
• Starring: Keir Dullea, Gary Lockwood, William Sylvester
• Genre: Sci-fi
• Star rating: 9/10

There is no mistake. What you will see at the beginning is a mere void. Only an orchestra can be heard by curious ears yet remain unseen by the naked eye. The deafening noise of music further intensifies and fills the theater as it seeks to fine-tune behind the black, desolate curtain. Until finally, right before your very eyes, Richard Strauss’ “Also Sprach Zarathustra” welcomes what has been created: the birth of a glorious universe. Iconic!

This audio-chromatic oddity of cinema is one of many ingenious frames in one of Stanley Kubrick’s visionary, technical masterpieces – 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), a half-a-century relic that justly belongs to the upper echelons of artis palmarius.

While its gargantuan vision of 2001, when viewed in the 21st-century lens, might seem ludicrous today, any pretenses of presentism must be abandoned to give the film its due appreciation. Were the expectations of the then distant future set unrealistically high? Perhaps, but its concept was not without rational cause.

In an epoch where two worldly superpowers could start an atomic doom at a push of a button or are fighting for the dominance of the cosmos, a sense of escapist, unearthly optimism felt needed. And its exuberant ambitions are best translated into one of the most intricate, delicate, and dedicated worldbuilding processes audiences will ever witness onscreen, especially for a film from 1968.

It seemed impossible to believe that the habitable spacecrafts, the anti-gravity movements, among others could be envisaged more than fifty years before computer-generated graphics would become a mainstay of box-office culture. And Kubrick demands his viewers to see this massive endeavor in a tediously slow but meticulous pace, a telling sign of his notorious pursuit for perfection, while Johann Strauss’ “The Blue Danube” splendidly plays in the background.

 However, this spectacular display of inventiveness was not all a plethora of sanguine thinking. All this excitement for what the future beholds is carefully balanced with genuine, pessimistic fear. As personified by the infamous HAL 9000, a techno paradigm is just as flawed as the human hands that created them to perfection. A preposterous paradox for the progressively industrious 1960s, maybe, but it might just be true by the next century’s post-modernist lens.

Yet for all this fantastical, sci-fi nature that this cinematic piece is upheld for by appreciative retrospection, it surprisingly was more curious with human introspection. Its purpose was epistemological, yet it is corroborated with this technological elaborateness. The result was unnerving, indescribable but outstanding, best elucidated by a conclusion that can only be described as peak mindfuckery.

So, if you, dear audiences, expect direct messages of typical, feel-good Hollywood, apologies, but that would not be Stanley Kubrick. Chances are, you will be left with more questions than answers on first viewing. Do not fret, though. This inquiring, philosophical pursuit can be gratifying for the open mind or plain pretentious for the adamantly grounded (Here is to hoping that you are not the latter).

And once again, we return to the year of that title: “2001”. Granted that the world never attained such machinal advancement nor achieved the first contact with the omniscient extraterrestrial by then, can it still be considered as a prophetic vision of Kubrick? Quite so, but not of the clairvoyant kind. Rather, it is, in its way, Biblical, an ontological revelation of humanity’s voyage thus far: from the moment man rationalized his first tools, to the perfection of his craftsmanship, all the way to the realization of his frailty, entrapment, and temporality, and so much more.

This futuristic vision must be seen with holistic eyes to realize that it is founded on an enthusiastic but cautionary perspective of the ancient past and the modern present.

Thus, 2001 may have come and gone, but Kubrick’s 2001 shall live in immortality.

• Release date: November 21, 2019
• Director: Alyx Ayn Arumpac
• Genre: Documentary
• Star rating: 8.75/10

31,232 dead, according to Real Numbers, from the ongoing Drug War in the Philippines.

From a journalist’s standpoint, it is easy to report them in the next news article. To the politically inclined social media user, it might be the next fact to preach in his or her next Twitter thread or Facebook post. Sadly, when it falls to deaf or ignorant ears, the efforts are made futile. And after about four years of constant battles, probably it is time to re-evaluate our approaches because facts must be seen beyond the analytics and the statistics.

A polarizing American political commentator named Ben Shapiro once said that facts do not care about your feelings. Maybe he is right. Maybe, he is wrong. Either way, perhaps we should pose this question: “Why should we care about the facts?”  

Enter the documentary film. One might expect your typical 45-minutes of detailing the events and the numbers. Not for the likes of Aswang (2019), a film that is factual but not empirical. It shows nightmares but not of cinematic fantasies. It is the reality, framed raw and not contrived. It truly feels like a sort-of derailment from the formulaic patterns and ingredients of most documentary films, yet it still emits those same sensations of fear and ferocity, only stronger.

And this works by performing a dualistic framing of the two years they have recorded through their camera lens. On one hand, it is the sceneries that speak so much more than when juxtaposed with redundant narration; you will witness long minutes of slums, cemeteries and streets riddled with dead bodies and  marginalized citizens of the wretched Manila, struggling to hide from a sly and vicious villain that lurks in the night. On the other hand, one can get glimpses of this monstrosity from the words of the people themselves. You will hear it from the distraught families who have lost their brother or father or any loved one. You will listen to the very reporters and photographers who bravely took to the streets to bring to light the injustice.

But the film gives far more importance from a seemingly unlikely source: a little child named Jomari. He is not of expected authority, yet the way he speaks showed far more experience than those of an expert. His own words had two things that a specialist might not have: gravitas and pathos. There is something upsetting when he narrates his every misfortune. But at the same time, there is also something petrifying about his perspective that is more adult and more violent than his juvenile peers.

When you step back, you might be wondering. What makes a child like him equally crucial to that of the adults featured? Maybe it is because he is like that of an innocent but unfortunate prey, caught in the web of a venomous spider. There is a justified blame placed on particular authority (who shall not be named), yet the film lets itself look at the bigger picture to unveil a problem more cyclic and systematic than any wild imagination could conjure up.

Thus, we return the question from the beginning. Why should we care about the facts? Because these narratives give that essential, poignant meaning that mere data could not provide. What is just as important as the underlying cause is the effect it has on the human. And what is far more frightening that the dramatizations on the screens is the realism that is only lies beyond the safety of your homes.

By the time you will finish this film, you might not look at the illuminous cityscape the same way again when you know that out there, an aswang does exist, insatiably hungry for blood and power. This film lets you see that; then, it asks you. What is next?

Directors hold a special place in the echelon of fame in the film industry, mostly because, in contrast to their acting peers, the styles and visions in their iconic movies are what gave them prominence. Steven Spielberg gets his identity mostly in films with strong box-office draw and family-oriented adventure. James Cameroon popularized the use of gargantuan imagery to concretize his imaginative storytelling. Martin Scorsese and Quentin Tarantino are best known for portraying violence and accentuate them through contextualized personal motifs.

And then, there is Ingmar Bergman. Not many may not find familiarity with him, but even the most well-regarded directors of all time know his name like indelible ink on paper because of how much he influenced their works and impacted cinema in almost its entirety.

I was curious with Ingmar’s filmography when I was in my college library skimming through 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die and noticing Ingmar Bergman’s name and films being among the most frequently mentioned. After so long, I have decided to dedicate my time to see at least four of his films that defined Ingmar Bergman. I was both confused yet in awe by the variety (Note: that was just four films). Never have found a filmmaker so evocatively daring but mysteriously enticing.

With some personal insights I have in mind, I wish to write what I have seen and how I understood him.

Talk

Bergman never fits perfectly in the conformities of great directing and filmmaking, and one looks at several movies from his filmography, it is sort of understandable to see why.

Among his most noticeable qualities in some of his films (at least those that I have watched) was the constant use of dialogue among characters. It may not seem appropriate even today, as “show, don’t tell” is widely embraced as a cardinal rule of film, but one cannot imagine an Ingmar Bergman movie without its characters speaking. Because this way, Bergman is talking to you.

Each person is an individual with her own static philosophies, but they can be immediately challenged when they clash with each other. Soon, a dynamism forms from stale discourse. Cliched as it may sound today, Bergman’s conversations are intellectually deep and unapologetically taboo. In a period when mainstream films are limited thematically by conservativism, he drops the formality and safety jumps right into it.

There is an upfront frankness to one’s apathy, fear or doubt in God and the afterlife, as the characters of The Seventh Seal faced Death personified. There is this apologetic yet erotic tone when Alma expresses her secreted feminine sexuality and guilt for abortion to Elisabeth Volger in Persona. There is also a bluntness in admitting little to no sense of filial piety among forlorn siblings in Cries and Whispers.  

When Bergman wishes to converse, he points out the elephant in the room long suppressed by human denial and self-abhorrence. He is fearlessly provocative.

Face

Nonetheless, film is a medium that is made to be seen, and Ingmar Bergman clearly knows this. Character is not merely constructed by mere dialogues; they are also observed in even the slightest hints of physical, kinetic demeanor. It may be found in how she holds an object on the palm of her hands or how he walks across a hall in differing strides, but perhaps the hardest yet most powerful expressions of character come from the expressions of the face.

It is naïve to think that it is as simple as a smile to show happiness or a frown for sadness, but while true to an extent, emotions are not as straightforward as they seem to be. There are subtle gradiences to them, and Bergman not only acknowledges but also highlights this minutiae feature.

 It is most evident in Bergman’s most introspective films, especially through his recurring muses that best exemplified this quality. Liv Ullmann is arguably the best example and one of Bergman’s wisest choices for an actress.  

Ullmann’s role of Elisabeth Volger in Persona is quite a taxing role, considering that she speaks little to nothing for almost the film’s entirety in contrast to the more talkative Alma, played by Bibi Andersson. Liv’s real challenge was to convey the clear-cut parallels between her and Bibi’s character only with her face, and she ineffably succeeded. Her face was indeed like a picture that speaks a thousand words, yet like a structured essay, there was a “thesis feeling” that synchronizes well with Alma’s monologuing, as demonstrated when they discussed the tragedy of Volger’s aborted child.

This was also explored in Cries and Whispers where Ullmann plays Maria. While her husband narrates the aging of her physical beauty, she looks at the mirror as her flirtatious smile slowly turns into an expression of disappointment and insecurity. Her attempts at rekindling with her estranged sister brought out feelings of sisterly love or even hints of incestuous infatuation.

Ingmar makes it clear to never underestimate the power and beauty of the human face, and fortunately for him, the likes of Ullmann comprehended this.

Abstraction

Alas, the human virtuoso can only go so far. Maybe actors could concretize a characteristic, but the complexities of the human psyche cannot so easily be depicted by an individual, leading to one question: How do you show something abstract? Bergman might have loved answering this question, to the point where he himself could be a psychologist (the Freudian kind, if you will). For him, it is fishing out the thoughts that are long suppressed by shame or ego. It is the fear of the self, manifested in many forms.

In The Seventh Seal, the chess game between Antonious Block and Death easily mirrored man’s foolhardy attempts to win or cheat the inevitability of dying, gravely underestimating it in the process and consequently eroding his bravery.

In Wild Strawberries and Persona, dreams are the most common elements to convey each of the protagonists’ innermost desires and phobias, as well as depicting very blurred and conflicting dichotomies: external expectations vs internal realities for the former and sensual fantasies vs harsh actualities for the latter. When reality bites, characters either pretend to feel numb or vehemently deny it.

Conclusion

Yet as of writing, it took me more than a whole week to put these thoughts together precariously. On one hand, I deliberately wanted to leave more room for any interpretation; after all, I have only watched four of his films. On the other hand, it pains me to limit my descriptions and leave them with much to be desired.

I could keep taking about how each individualistic traits of his other thespian muses like Bibi Andersson and Ingrid Bergman set them apart.

I could have further progressed the discourse on how his personal insights in religion and spirituality manifested in his movies.

I could even talk about his influence could widely be seen in the likes of David Lynch, Martin Scorsese and so on.

But alas, Bergman’s films are a lot to unpack in one sitting, yet at the same time, I am in gratitude for such a surrealistic experience that I do not wish to further spoil or misinterpret them with my own words.

• Release date: August 30, 2018 (Venice International Film Festival)
• Director: Alfonso Cuarón
• Starring: Yalitza Aparacio, Marina de Tavira
• Genre: Drama
• Star rating: 9.5/10

For the original review written in 2018, click the link: https://www.facebook.com/notes/loyola-film-circle/wideshot-reviews-roma/2052494951497623/

Memories are enigmatic; they are ineffable montages of the beauty and the ugly of the human condition. Whether they bring us a sense of halcyon or upset, they overwhelm us either way when they play out in our consciousness. If there is one medium that can closely match these experiences, it is the cinema. Even then, inquiries arise. How do you portray a memory? Better yet, what makes one? Such questions may have tested director extraordinaire Alfonso Cuarón when formulating what would become Roma (2018). What he ultimately crafted is a cinematic miracle and what might be his long-awaited magnum opus, the crème de la crème of his illustrious repertoire.

However, it is reasonable for an audience easily indoctrinated in a cinema industry overstuffed with extravagant indulgence to find difficulty in comprehending or appreciating this cinematic piece. Cuarón is no stranger to this, having directed himself acclaimed blockbuster hits like Prisoner of Azkaban (2004) Gravity (2013) under his belt.

By contrast, what Cuaron deals with next is a tale inspired by his beloved nanny in the eponymous Mexico City neighborhood. The option appeared besieged with shortcomings, or does it? When staring at a blank canvas, Cuarón looks inward and outward, just like a reminiscence, resulting in a film that overwhelms you with sensations and challenges you to delve at its intricacies.

And it illustrates this subtly from the very beginning. Your eyes stare at nothing but opaque floor tiles cleansed by water and suds. Then, an entrancing feeling of childlike wonderment consumes you when staring at a crystal-clear reflection of a plane scraping the blank sky. Suddenly, it turns blurry as brackish waters rush in like tidal waves. Those three minutes alone prelude to what you are about to see onscreen.

Through the camera lens, we see what he sees: Mexico, his motherland of contrasting but fascinating facets: the hustle and bustle of la Ciudad and la barrio, the vastness of the Latin American countryside, and the compact modesty of a middle-class home. There is this seamlessness in the grandiosity of their worldbuilding. It is as if these places remained untouched or unaltered like a time capsule.

But this is where the downside could have emerged: framed complexities that upstage the characters and leaving them lost to the viewers’ sight. Incredibly, and in Alfonso Cuarón fashion, he strikes a balance by toying with dimensions and putting his human personas front and center while the world radiates from the middle. He finds focus against the backdrop of aesthetic convolutions. But make no mistake. Through broad cinematography, the world is not just a mere setting. It is an extension and an accentuation of the human self.

And this humanity is best captured by Cleo (Yalitza Aparicio) and Sofia (Marina de Tavira) as they go through paralleled odysseys of the peaks and troughs of their livelihoods.
You will witness emphasis when she runs swiftly while the surroundings move in slow paces.

You will find isolation when the characters are left deserted in the crowds or the streets.

You will feel peace when Cleo balances herself while her surrounding peers could not.

You will grieve with Cleo and Sofia as they mourn their losses.

You will appreciate resilience when Cleo disappears into the raging oceans.

Such scenes are further heightened and accelerated by waves of emotional, visual, and sonic intensities like the recoding of a seismograph. They start with tumultuous noise and end in numbing silence.

We are alone. No matter what they tell you, we women are always alone.

Sofia

Then, certain substances emerge. There is a social and material dichotomy, sans any animosity. There is also political rage, yet it lingers not for too long. Instead, it aims at returning to the roots, back to the nucleus of humanity: the camaraderie, the loneliness, the lividness, the altruism, and the passion. All of which were lost to or brought up by worldly misery and unpredictable misgivings.

Thus, Cuarón may have rekindled not only a process but also a purpose. Remembrances and films share that same core of one’s yearning pursuit for eudaimonia, as humanity synchronizes its spellbinding and convoluted journey with the world.

Every human has a great potential that can be developed through physical training. Yes! But most importantly through the evolution of the mind and the spirit. The only miracle resides within your own will. You can develop this potential but don’t expect a miracle.

Professor Zovek

• Release date: January 23, 2016 (Sundance Film Festival)
• Director: Kenneth Lonergan
• Starring: Casey Affleck, Michelle Williams, Lucas Hedges
• Genre: Drama
• Star rating: 8/10

A philosopher by the name of Aristotle once wrote of mastering the art of ethics and skill. In the pursuit of achieving excellence in the inherent goodness of virtue and talent comes the goal of finding balance by combating the radical extremes, between excessiveness and deficiency. Cinema somewhat escapes this notion where even juggernauts of film productions or the most dramatic of scripts are hailed as critical darlings. Nonetheless, rarely would a film’s innate greatness find itself at the so-called Golden Mean; this might be one of them: Manchester By the Sea (2016), quite arguably a quintessence of Nicomachean cinema.

It is drama but neither excessive nor coerced.

It is a slice-of-life but not too subdued.

It is infuriating but not ill-tempered.

Yet by the premise alone, the movie seemed to suggest otherwise: a man forced to confront a traumatic past. It could have been a narrative easily dismissed in the re-runs of Hallmark Channel’s line-up or another proposal for a generic, over-the-top soap opera. Lo and behold, its ability to divert but still meet high expectations with intelligent direction, restrained delivery, and au naturel writing, put together a story that keeps itself grounded on reality all while keeping itself desolate.

By choosing the real-life namesake of the film and capturing it with simplistic cinematography, the town provides a sense of ethereal placidness in its quaint homes, bright skies, and lush seas, nailing not only the tonal direction familiar to drama but also providing a breather to the viewer like VapoRub to an ill man. The dialogue adheres to everyday conversation, yet simple words like “please” can offer more poignancy than preachy, theatric monologuing, or emphatic use of articles like “The Lee Chandler” catches attention and begs the questions why or how. But the star trademark of Kenneth Lonergan’s direction lies in his wise method of sequencing events. The first twenty minutes shows mastery in character introduction: a sad, everyday man who was once a happy family guy told through the flashbacks and the present, no obvious narration or signifier required. Then, when the following scenes culminate in the conflict and tragedy, it impactfully made sense.

This leads us to Casey Affleck. He holds no star baggage like his brother Ben, yet he holds untapped potential. His repertoire consists of an amusing hooligan (Good Will Hunting) and anger-management-needing gang man, but by taking this role, his craft comes in a full circle, founded in the persona of Lee Chandler. There is a fiery temperament that has been soothed but not extinguished. There is insouciance that is in reality numbness to pain or any bottled-up feeling. There is also an outspoken but unexaggerated sense of grief and guilt. Such expressions are morbidly despondent yet in Casey’s performative execution, a balanced Zen is attained. It is as real as it gets.

Of course, Manchester is not at all a one-man show, for there is something about the other characters that added more substance to an already profound protagonist, and in turn, they become considerable figures of their own. There is Lucas Hedges who brings out the adolescent angst and a secreted torment that makes his character Patrick a congruent and the opposite of Lee at the same time. Likewise, there is Michelle Williams, who despite being given short screen time, showed the massive potential to upstage Casey and break Lee in just short minutes.

But through all the tears, is it all just clichéd sappiness? Maybe, if you dear audience fancy exaggeration, but take it as the perfect detox from it. Think of it as a chapter of the New Testament of the Bible of Misfortunes: same depression by heart, but with a revived understanding of expressiveness in mind. It gives not too much or too little; it’s just right.

“I can’t beat it.”

Lee Chandler

• Release date: August 30, 2013 (Telluride Film Festival)
• Director: Steve McQueen
• Starring: Chiwetel Ejiofor, Michael Fassbender, Benedict Cumberbatch, Lupita Nyong’o, Brad Pitt
• Genre: Drama, History
• Star rating: 8.5/10

“Based on a true story”: No phrase instills chills down the spine or magnetize interests among film audiences than this ubiquitous line to the point where it arguably becomes its own facet of cinema. But where do the audience’s responses of such bold statement lie? Is it in the experience of the truth or the truth of the experience? Does it lie in the relentlessness of the narrative or the historicity of such bold storytelling? In films like Fargo, the brutal but untrue mystery narrative is exacerbated by the clever use of the phrase. Enter Steve McQueen’s 12 Years A Slave, a film that encapsulates the pain in the truth and the truth in the pain.

Founded in the chronicles of American abolitionist Solomon Northup, the film hints at its pessimism in the clever use of mise-en-scène. When the film seemingly commences as a tough road from rags to riches, it then reveals itself to be sly deception. It is truthfully the story of a colored man turned into a pawn for material gain, stripped bare off his peaceful sanctuary, and for one just reason: that is his reality, blunt and not sugarcoated.

As the minutes progress into hours, the limits of time slip away into vagueness to create not a dozen years of slavery but a hopeless perpetuity of racial subjugation.

 “I am Solomon Northup. I am a free man; a resident of Saratoga, New York. The residence also of my wife and children who are equally free. I have papers. You have no right whatsoever to detain me…”

Solomon Northup

These themes are presented through a variety of juxtaposed framing. A series of scenes showing the arduous slavery layered with their masters chanting “Run, N*****, Run” and preaching Christian scriptures shows a cohesive and concise exposition of the different faces of systematic oppression. The prolonged, unedited capturing of the slave market, the hanging of Solomon, and the scourging of poor Patsy perfectly frames a radiation of negative emotions, from the helplessness of the lachrymose masses to the apathy of an angered white character.

But no aspect of this film stands out more than one of the most commendable performances by a cast ensemble in years, showing virtuoso in tacit human expressions, direct to the camera but riddled with nuanced feelings. Lupita Nyong’o’s performance offered substantial personality to a minor character, Patsy, by mere gazes of humiliation and fatigue from here red-blooded eye or by a rivetingly emotional delivery that instigates rage and pain in audiences’ souls. Michael Fassbender justifies a viewers’ abhorrence and petrification for the antagonistic slave master by displaying licentiousness and bigotry with a dash of emasculation and reluctance to punish. Last, but not the least, is Chiwetel Ejiofor’s most substantial acting as of writing, bringing to life the exploited Solomon and his conflicted morality through showing ineffable expressions that pierces you like a needle to the heart.

Through the confluence of these merits, 12 Years A Slave exemplified a different but effective method of depicting controversial themes like racism and abuse. Where other motion pictures tackle them with symbols or gloss over them like sweet glaze, this one lies on the other side of the spectrum of cinematic intricacy: be direct and real; it speaks just as much, or even more than the facile film fodder.  Because in history, the truest of stories are often the most unsettling to fathom and accept as human reality.

“Laws change. Social systems crumble. Universal truths are constant. It is a fact – it is a plain fact that what is true and right is true and right for all. White and black alike.”

Bass

• Release date: February 16, 2000
• Director: Mike de Leon
• Starring: Ricky Davao, Cris Villanueva, Joel Torre
• Genre: Mockumentary, Satire, History
• Star rating: 7.5/10

1998: the year the Philippine Republic commemorated the centenary anniversary of its independence from colonial rule…ignoring the American killjoy of a “benevolent assimilation” but that is a story for another time. Marking the occasion calls for frivolous celebration, providing the perfect prospects for the local film industry to pay tribute to the one that started it all: Jose Rizal, the national hero. Jose Rizal (1998) and Rizal sa Dapitan (1998), two of the most mainstream biographical films at the time, expectedly praised the famed mason and received praise in return with accolades and box office receipts. Then, there is the maverick of Filipino history films, Bayaning Third World (1999), crafted by the realist visions of Mike de Leon. 

Not many audiences nor a handful of film connoisseurs understand the impact historical films to the cultural milieu. As with national monuments, local currency, top academes and other similar institutions, film literature and media proliferation can further cement a person into the upper echelon of heroic icons. Even the introductory minutes of de Leon’s opus highlighted this phenomenon with hyperbolic hilarity.

But, where Diaz-Abaya’s Jose Rizal is the apotheosis of Filipino historical drama, de Leon’s Bayaning Third World is the antithesis, two sides of the same coin of profundity. One colors history with an array of gradience; the other shades it with black-and-white monotony. One treats its real-life protagonist with high regards; the other frames him with dubiousness. And this social realism is commonplace in de Leon’s filmography, most notably in films like Batch ’81, but with this motion picture, he slaps you with a dose of reality with some reservations, an open-minded rhetoric, and a dash of comedy.

Such curious introspection is cleverly concretized in the filmmakers’ direction on character portrayal and the usage of anachronisms and fourth wall breaks. The filmmakers’ office setting gradually empties itself from paraphernalia to reflect the narrowing down of their investigation that disappointingly leads to dead ends. The polarizing acting of the historical figures, ranging from typical telenovela-esque furiousness to poorly conceived European accents, represents more of the lead’s imaginative inquisition than the factuality of their personas.

When you step back and look at the broader picture, the mockumentary becomes less centered on the legitimacy of Rizal’s heroism and more focused on the authenticity of history, and by extension, the accuracy of historical cinema, both disciplines whose truths are overtly taken for granted, moreso in a country prone to blind patriotism (Well, at least that seemed to be the intention.)

Thus, when the film concludes with “To each his own Rizal,” the delivery is somewhat riddled with a contemptuous tone, and not of expected neutrality. Their contrived idea of Rizal is made the enemy. Though antagonism aside, the stance is justifiable, after stacking and portraying evidence after evidence onscreen with no clear conclusions. The message is dangerous on its own but is easily mediated with rationality. Yes, history upholds the essential truths, but in de Leon’s eyes, history might just be a bitter pill to swallow.

• Release date: September 2, 2016 (Telluride Film Festival)

• Director: Barry Jenkins

• Starring: Trevante Rhodes, André Holland, Janelle Monáe, Naomie Harris, Mahershala Ali

• Genre: Drama

• Star rating: 8.75/10

“This old lady, she stopped me. She said, ‘Running around, catching up all that light. In moonlight, black boys look blue. You blue. That’s what I gon’ call you. Blue.’ “

Juan to “Little” Chiron

What makes a man is an enigma. The face of the fearless strongman only obscures a dynamic but eschewed humanity. Yet, when one mutes all the white noise, it unveils a silence that speaks a thousand suppressed words. Such descriptions perhaps best characterized Chiron’s tragic odyssey surrealistically projected by the incandescence of Moonlight (2016).

The film introduces its contemporary themes in a familiar milieu: in a town in the American South, mostly populated by the downtrodden people of color, lives a timid child turned hooligan. It may look easy to call Moonlight another crime-ridden motion picture marred with antiquated stereotypes of “colored” characters. However, by disproving these pretenses in its first few minutes, the film begins to prove itself as a treatment fresher and more poignant than any current media depiction of black and queer people.

Firstly, film technicalities would be futile without the people who portray such profound characters. Mahershala Ali presents his talent in acting through the subtle duality of Juan by showcasing a sense of masculine gravitas and a suppressed sense of apprehension and guilt. With these attributes, Juan’s altruistic fathering of a juvenile Chiron gives the latter’s metamorphosis more potency. The remarkable but despondent transformation of the main protagonist is furthered emphatically with the co-equal performances of Alex Hilbert, Ashton Sanders, and Trevante Rhodes. When merged into one motion picture, it makes their acting as cohesive as its poster. However, there is more to the film’s methods of cohesion than just the creation of these figures.

Its three-act narrative is similar to grandiloquent classical literature whose words portray Chiron and the other characters’ emotional states. Most displays of film craftsmanship depend on the harmony of its elements. Moonlight relies on both refinement and chaos. Unhinged cinematography, fast-paced edits, and the score’s intense crescendos project different forms of rage. The camera’s idleness, the colored luminescence, the furtive dialogue, and powerful silence demonstrate instances of cathartic intimacy.

Thus, all these acclaimed qualities narrow down the film’s very purpose. Is it another film that delves into the “colored” and “queer”, both castigated sectors of American society? Maybe. Still, it is its deviation from the usual thematic norms that makes it so refreshing.

When it discourses itself on racial violence, it explains with more nuances than most.

When it deals with black masculinity, it includes a mellowness and sympathy not typically seen or felt.

When it shows homoerotic sensations, the platonic side triumphs over the overt sexualization of queerness.

Moonlight, therefore, is comparable to that of the renewed baptism, a re-cleansing, if you will, with new rules but still under the same faith. It adds a new direction to an already ubiquitous conversation; it is a group-specific but universal experience. When illuminated in a new light, a peculiar but beautiful palette emerges in the night.

You the only man that’s ever touched me. You’re the only one. I haven’t really touched anyone since.

“Black” Chiron to Kevin