Directed by Whammy Alcazaren
Written by Whammy Alcazaren and Giancarlo Abrahan

Directed by Borgy Torre
Written by Vicente Garcia Groyon

Directed and Written by Mes De Guzman

*Warning: Reviews are slightly spoiler-y.

Islands: Beloved by many, and understandably so, Whammy’s second feature is every bit as ambitious as his first, and it’s an ambition attuned both to the limits of its reach and to the imperatives of ignoring and overstepping those limits, which he thankfully indulges. A spaceship becomes a metaphor for the inarticulate speech of the heart that threads the crushing solitudes of a widow, a primeval hunter and an astronaut into something of a cosmic equivalence. All hangs brightly, sometimes even poignantly, until the astronaut inexplicably breaks into Moonstar 88's worst hit, disrupting the tone. And in revealing how everything is a mere figment of a director’s grandiose imagination, its lofty vision feels, if not entirely trivialized, then obfuscated, held back, reduced even, and all we have is the banal fumble of a conversation between two friends who can't quite admit their feelings for each other. For all its reliance on words, though, on navel-gazing elucidation and mumblecore whimsy, on epic poetry and corny pop song lyrics, the film is, if nothing else, a parade of intoxicating images, and for the most part, they articulate its longings with more brunt and potency, not least of which is that breath-taking shot of the astronaut’s helmet fogging up as he sighs, realizing perhaps that the world outside his spaceship is no different from the world inside it, only more desolate and more endless, reminding us, too, of how far the film wanted to go and how close it got before it's stranded by its own hesitations in speaking its love.

Kabisera: A fisherman stumbles on what can only be described as a motherlode of premium-grade meth and, with a prod from his enterprising wife, goes into business with his unstable childhood friend and things, naturally, fuck up, albeit slowly. A logline like that makes the Breaking Bad parallels almost a given, except that this was written four years ago before the show became a glimmer in the public consciousness. Not only that, but our history with meth runs long enough and deep enough to argue for its endemism. Dibs, then.  Not that it gets as hopped-up as a meth high. Its deliberate languor may lag some in the second act but is consistent with the coiled simmer of noir, which is what this is, given how it's as much about the frailty of men, and how the two at its center are undone by a woman, as it is about the patriarchal tyranny that is how we are wired as a culture and the monstrous shapes it can take. The disquieting coda, shot in appropriately excruciating slow motion that forces us to linger on the ramifications,  gets under the skin and takes its time leaving.

Sitio: At some point, a character holds up a bootleg DVD of  Straw Dogs. That's Mes giving you a nudge and a wink. Because that's what this essentially is, a bootleg cover of Straw Dogs, rough-hewn and low-fi, but not in the way Funny Games was, which is to say that it doesn't bother with either the postmodern interrogation, nor the gratuitous display, of cinematic violence, and more a straight-up transplanting of its skin and bones to our rural boondocks, which oddly makes sense. The city folk under siege are not a nerdish mathematician and his inexplicably gorgeous wife but rather a washed-up and paranoid coward and his two very shrill, and possibly very dim, and definitely very annoying, younger sisters, repairing to their derelict country house after he loses everything. And you're never quite sure if the four men who work for them and eventually, insidiously,  take over the place pose any serious danger, not when all they seem to want to do is cook food for everyone and videoke all night, even after one of them allegedly dies by the brother's unwitting hand. Taken purely on its self-imposed genre terms, it lacks the necessary threat and constriction, it's too listless, too loose. Come to this as if it were a black comic inversion of the power structure, though, and the drawn-out ambivalence of their upended class dynamic comes to life in spurts.



"Ideologically, none of us should like the Bond films. They are sexist, heterosexist, xenophobic, everything that is not politically correct." (Professor James Chapman)

He was the flamboyant antithesis to the sober, conflicted British real world working class spooks embodied by Harry Palmer and George Smiley and Tom Quinn. Bond, that is. James Bond. Not so much a spy but a superspy, but really, The Superspy.  With an iconography that has exploded and calcified into its own self-contained rubric. Every James Bond film had a status quo to safeguard, from the voluptuous tremolo of its theme music to the softcore chic of its credit sequences, but it would also include at some point an ungainly, often unfortunate fondness for silly sight gags and sillier tech. At some point, Bond had become this jokey anachronism, a cash cow still but coasting on nostalgia more than anything else. Johnny English was having a go at James Bond, of course.  But Bond, at least in the films, eventually became his own Johnny English, a caricature of what was vaguely one already.

Dean Martin’s Matt Helm was having a go at Bond, too.  Having a go, specifically, at the lothario in him.  Bond slept around, sure. That singular trait almost superseded every other facet of his character. But much as the Bond films did objectify women to a point, one can argue that it isn't any more sexist than that laptop wallpaper of Ryan Gosling with his shirt off. Kingsley Amis generously described Bond's attitude toward women as “Protective, not dominating or combative.”  But Alan Moore, who appropriated the Bond character under a thinly-veiled disguise in his League of Extraordinary Gentleman comics, says otherwise:  “The overriding factor in James Bond's psychological makeup is his utter hatred and contempt for women.” And there is a sinister thrill in re-visiting the series with a firm grasp of this particular, and rather subversive, kink in his persona. Bond Girl is the collective by which these women are known, and they have in common, if nothing else, a latent exotica and a double entendre name, with Honor Blackman’s Pussy Galore from Goldfinger being the juiciest of them all. “My name is Pussy Galore.” she tells Bond, who retorts “I must be dreaming.”

But it’s Ursula Andres’ Amazonian Honey Ryder from Dr. No whom the world regards as the sovereign Bond Girl. And there’s no denying the charge of that first time we see her, emerging from the ocean in nothing but a white bikini. “What are you doing here, looking for shells?” she asks Bond. “No” , Bond quips, “Just looking.” Oddly enough, the Bond Girl never did adhere to this look. In the next film, From Russia With Love, Danielle Bianchi‘s Tatyana Romanova was neither as robust or statuesque, and was in fact, almost aggressively feminine, her strength being her demeanor, less of a co-dependent damsel in distress but more a pro-active ally.

The films pulled back on the history of sexual violence the Bond Girls shared in Ian Fleming’s novels. Pulled back almost to the point of ignoring it, their film counterparts having less turbulent backstories.   Significantly, too, in the first two films, both the swashbuckle and the promiscuity were also pulled back, not yet succumbing to the pulp tendencies and the tongue-in-cheek, outlandish vibe, nor to the alleged misogyny and xenophobia and sexism. The clause we sometimes unwittingly invoke to take pleasure in the Bond films without qualifiers was that they were espionage fantasies as fetish cartoons, that they were not to be taken that seriously. Because, seen one way, the Professor was right.  And so was Paul Johnson, whose scathing review of the Dr. No novel, boiled Bond down to “the sadism of a schoolboy bully, the mechanical two-dimensional sex-longings of a frustrated adolescent, and the crude snob-cravings of a suburban adult.” Still. Drives fancy cars, has a battery of science-fiction gadgets at his disposal, sleeps with every beautiful woman he happens to run into. Being Bond, even for a day, is the ultimate male power fantasy.

But if we persist in the argument that he was a remorseless Casanova, who only saw women as a means to an end, as necessary collateral damage to getting the job done, then we can break the Bond Girl down to two types.  Those who succumb to his wiles and often seal their doom when they do, like Solange from Casino Royale or Shirley Eaton in Goldfinger or Andrea Anders from The Man With The Golden Gun.  And those whose wiles he succumbs to or the ones where he meets his match, like Michele Yeoh’s Wai Lin from Tomorrow Never Dies , who not once felt she needed Bond’s help to save the day.

There are gray areas, the Bond Girls that are neither one or the other, and are consequently  the least interesting ones, if only because they were passive, a little ditzy at times and amounted to little more than eye candy, with Denise Richards’ Christmas Jones from The World Is Not Enough being the most vacuous of the lot. Jane Seymour’s mysterious Solitaire from Live And Let Die  does tend to fall into this limbo but she gets a reprieve out of how she seemed to genuinely throw Bond on a loop.  Grace Jones’ May Day in A View To A Kill  started  out as a foe, one who could power lift a grown man and parachute off the Eiffel Tower, and finished up on Bond’s side but suffering for it, becoming quite possibly the only Bond Girl to embody both types. Like Pussy Galore, except Pussy Galore managed to get out unscathed. They were both, of course, henchwomen. Sophie Marceau’s Elektra King from The World Is Not Enough was, significantly, the one calling the shots, the first, and so far only, female evil mastermind in the entire franchise, and canny enough to know what would break a man like Bond and almost did.

Eva Green’s Vesper Lynd in Casino Royale was the bolt from the blue, the smite of no return for Bond. The Daniel Craig reboot was revisionism by risk management, sure, but it also meant to prop the sag in the franchise by realigning it with the real world, with its powderkeg urgency, with its existential angst, with its apocalyptic melancholia. With its Jason Bournes and Jack Ryans, really. Gone was the suavity of Connery , the cheekiness of Moore, the earnestness of Brosnan, and in its place was something a little darker, a little wounded, a little more vulnerable. Craig played Bond as brash, brutish, and verging on everything they tried to pin on him all these years. And the chink in the armors of men as fortified as he is here is always love  At one point, he tells Vesper “I have no armour left. You’ve stripped it from me. Whatever is left of me, whatever I am, I’m yours.” and that he intends to quit and run away with her. She, of course, sees to it that it never happens.

If we go by the chronology of the films, rather than the novels, Vesper is not the first girl Bond falls in love with. That honor belongs to Diana Rigg’s Teresa Draco in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, the only girl Bond went so far as to marry.  Their wedding is quite possibly the most joyous sequence in a Bond film ever.  And in the penultimate scene that comes after, as the newlyweds drive off to their ever after, you get to feel something you rarely feel in a Bond film, a genuine sense of empathy and a genuine sense of threat. Here is Bond. The misogynist, the xenophobe, the heterosexist,  the superspy.  Rehabilitated by love but also made impervious to harm by it,  just before he is ultimately destroyed by the only thing that could: a heart broken in half by true love and an assassin's bullet.

*Originally published in Vault



Giuseppe Tornatore’s Malena was, in hindsight, far less than its reputation would have you believe, and whose exaltation I’ve always regarded with mild bewilderment and pin on whatever residual goodwill there was left for its auteur, who claimed the world as his oyster 12 years before, after Cinema Paradiso somehow nudged Italian cinema back into the spotlight, becoming the universally-beloved arthouse film for people who don’t like arthouse films. Prey as it was to a gnawing sentimentality, Cinema Paradiso was nevertheless seized by this confluence of mischief and wonderment that gave it a litheness and buoyancy that was nowhere to be found in the middling, ham-fisted predictability of Malena. You can argue, of course, and to be fair, Malena has retained a coterie of die-hards to this day, but the only aspect of it that’s resistant to argument, or indeed, to dissent, was, and still is, the intoxicating smolder of its star , Monica Bellucci.

The consensus reality among cineastes was that, after WWII, neo-realism begun to progressively exhaust its surplus. Vittorio De Sica’s 1952 Umberto D. was sort of its last bow and more or less the point when Italian cinema began to splinter and diversify, into pink neo-realism, into Spaghetti Westerns, into giallos, into the vibrant climate under which the hormonal phenomenon known as the Italian Goddess would emerge and hold sway, tapering off in the 1980s and becoming, in 2000,  little more than remaindered exotica many times re-purposed by advertising into pop cultural iconicity. But here was Monica, on the screen, in the now, a few years before she posed on the cover of an American magazine wearing nothing but Iranian caviar, embodying its quintessence, rekindling its fervor, evoking on one hand, the earthy sultriness of Anna Magnani in Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Mamma Roma and on the other, the robust sensuality of Daniela Silverio in Michelangelo Antonioni’s Identification of a Woman.

Movie stars, of course, routinely undergo being clustered, some would say objectified, into collective, and predominantly physical, stereotypes. It’s branding. Boil it down and the Italian Goddess comes from the same fetishizing impulses that infect us today with Manic Pixie Dream Girls. Or, to bring it to closer and less annoying iterations, the Hitchcock Blonde and the French ingénue, both of which proliferated in pretty much the same 50s/60s period of overlap. But where the Hitchcock Blonde was all about icy mystery and the French ingénue about swoony obliviousness, the Italian Goddess was about a sharpness of feature so fierce it refused to succumb to either enigma or doubt, statuesque glories but leavened by vulnerability, feeding a fantasy of indomitable yet attainable beauty, navigating their way in a world sticky with the wiles of men. You think of Claudia Cardinale’s tragic bride being engulfed by the town in her first masterful sequence in Sergio Leone’s Once Upon A Time In The West, of Elsa Martinelli’s wildlife photographer turning the jaunty safari she joins on its head, and softening crusty old John Wayne while she’s at it, in Howard Hawks’  Hatari!. You think, too, of  Asia Argento’s call girl brokering a dangerous defection in Abel Ferrara’s New Rose Hotel, and of Isabela Rosellini’s torch singer embroiled in the prickly suburban malaise of David Lynch’s Blue Velvet.

Asia and Isabella were the other two Italian actresses in the first glimmers of the noughties that had achieved similar measures of profile as Monica. Coincidentally, both were legacies, daughters of Italian cinema’s two most ubiquitous auteurs. Between the three of them, they managed to represent the various permutations that fall under the Italian Goddess subgenus.  Asia came on like a feisty iteration of her father’s giallo damsels in distress. And the parallels drawn between Isabella and Giulietta Masina, the waifish prostitute in Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria and his eventual wife and muse, more than make continual sense. And Monica, you trace her back to the Italian Goddess of Italian Goddesses: Sophia Loren, Italian cinema’s crossover superstar, whose allure managed to upstage even the shadowy elegance of Carol Reed’s optics in his criminally under-seen The Key.  Resplendent, ominous, heartbreaking Sophia.

But Italian Goddess  pre-eminence is something I ultimately reserve for and cede to the impossibly beautiful Monica Vitti, if only for the work she did with Michelangelo Antonioni. In Il Deserto Rosso, their fourth film together, the suffocation of human connection, the slow poisoning of whatever tenuous interstices transpire between its characters, is poeticized through blasted images of encroaching industrialization: a sudden shout of color turning out to be a small flower in an indifferent field of grey waste, a cargo ship passing through a line of trees, two men dwarfed by a gigantic and seemingly sentient plume of smoke. The fragile beauty overwhelmed by her surroundings and forced to burn through it is, in many ways, the précis of the Italian Goddess journey. And centering things here is the spectacle of Monica as a lonely housewife seemingly spiraling into madness. But is she really going mad? Or is she, in her colossal frustration from fighting a losing battle against this consensual deadening of emotions, the only one coming to her senses? In the film’s quasi-famous "orgy" scene, where everybody can't/won't/don't know how to articulate their hard-ons, Monica is the only one who opposes the torpor and pops those allegedly aphrodisiac eggs. She rolls them in her mouth, savoring it, before turning around to face everyone else and proclaiming ,with equal parts sarcasm and seduction, disgust and defiance: "I feel like making love." 

*originally published in Vault


Consider the Blonde. In the context of American beauty, specifically Hollywood beauty, the Blonde has always laid claim to the uppermost tier in the hierarchy, its fabled mystique perpetually holding sway, if only because the misguided perception of eternal youth it summons is the sole grist for the myth mill of Absolute Celebrity, and never mind the connotations of dimness and cruelty that go with the hair. Blondes, dumb or not, not only have more shelf life, but they do have more fun in the eyes of the world, more so in its far-out post-colonial Third World corners where blondes do not exist without liberal amounts of hair dye and therefore gain a sense of the exotic, of the ungraspable. And Old Hollywood had its own deep bench of Blondes, from Jean Harlow to Mae West to Veronica Lake to Marlene Dietrich to Jayne Mansfield to Hitchcock’s own little mini-pantheon, Kim Novak and Janet Leigh and Grace Kelly and Ingrid Bergman and Tippi Hedren, whom he collectively described to Francois Truffaut, in that epic interview book of theirs, as “the drawing-room type, the real ladies, who become whores once they’re in the bedroom.” 

None, though, had quite the singular ferocity of presence Marilyn Monroe had, what Billy Wilder called that “certain indefinable magic”. And , as it is with any star of similarly iconic charge, the James Deans and Bruce Lees, that is often enough. You can, of course, mine just the bookends of her short career and strike enough ore to justify the way she embodies the icon of the Hollywood Blonde. Her first role, in John Huston’s terse heist thriller The Asphalt Jungle, may have been tiny but it nearly upset the film’s balance of predominantly male energies. Her last , as a wayward divorcee in Arthur Miller’s misunderstood Western The Misfits  (see picture), was shot while she was in the ballistic throes of her raging addictions, mostly to alcohol and barbiturates, looking a little filled out and more than a little lived-in. And yet, even as the glare of her impossible prettiness had significantly weakened to expose some of her damage and most of her vulnerabilities, there she was still, at her most beautiful. You can make a case for the rest of her work as an actress, really, something that’s been undervalued and overlooked in the immense shadow of her fame.

Only Marilyn died a year after The Misfits came out, in 1962. And the icon she had become has since grown so colossal and so distant, so pervasive and so co-opted into the pop cultural parlance, that it’s been leeched of meaning, of nuance , of anything to do with who she really was or even what she really did, fetishized so thoroughly as to verge almost on caricature, on anachronism. Sure, everybody knows that shot of her standing over a subway grate with her white dress billowing, but how many have actually sat through Billy Wilder’s The Seven Year Itch let alone know that’s where the scene came from? And yes, everybody remembers she sang Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend but are we remembering Madonna paying hommage in her Material Girl video or the original number from Howard Hawks’ Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? This is what happens when stars get supernova-bright that they eclipse themselves.

Everybody recognizes Marilyn. But which Marilyn do they recognize? The little orphan who got bounced from foster home to foster home? The feisty ingénue who took it upon herself to rescue the dumb blonde from its stereotype by refusing to play any? The sex symbol who not only challenged whatever prudish conceits about sexuality prevailed in her time but turned them on their heads? The country girl who made her fallibility a facet of her persona? The global superstar inevitably beset and eventually damaged by the usual confluence of demons that come with being famous? The sultry temptress? The ditzy comedienne? The fashion icon? The brand? Because that’s what Marilyn has always been, at the height of her career and decades into the commodification of her myth. A brand that represented, superficially, an over-romanticized ideal of glamour, but also and ultimately empowerment and self-worth.

JFK was apparently the last person Marilyn called before her fatal overdose. And rumors that she was put to death, some say by Kennedy minions, some say by the mob, have always swirled around her death. Outrageous as the conspiracy theories tend to get, they do have a darkly poetic tingle to them, as if she were this fire who had raged too wildly and had to be snuffed. Whether it was assassination or accident or whether it was self-inflicted, her claim to the icon was sealed on that August day. Just as dying her brown hair blonde was a canny way to spin her career into motion, dying in the heat of her moment was an unwittingly canny way to end it, ceding her the one thing any of Hollywood Blondes never had: relief from obsolescence and with it, immortality.

*Originally published in Vault.



On The Job
Directed by Erik Matti 
Written by Michiko Yamamoto and Erik Matti

There is that prosaic title, and the way its lack of macho swagger can be taken as Erik Matti deliberately being coy. OTJ  did go by a slightly more playful name, OJT, a colloquial acronym for “on-the-job training” and an example of how a mere transposing of letters can spell a galaxy of difference. OJT is active, a working towards something, a baptism of fire. OTJ is more passive, more rudimentary. It also clicks into place contextually. The four men around which its murky soup swirls, two cops and two killers, are, after all, disgruntled professionals and work is their vortex, giving their dead-end lives a scrap of meaning but sucking them in and slowly corroding them in the process. OTJ is essentially about the four walls of the work and the slow death from the ways it closes in on you. Its undertow of conspiracy may insinuate a malaise that creeps far beyond its confines, reaching up to lowlifes in high places even, but everything boils down to an organization merely cleaning house.

There's a world-weary pessimism snaking throughout  that makes it almost misleading to front-load the hard-sell with the promise of gunporn and all the swashbuckle and catharsis it implies. The elaborate gun battle that starts in a network of alleyways, moves to a crumbling hospital, before splintering into a subway train and a dock warehouse is neither swashbuckling nor cathartic, but rather, cramped, brutish, graceless. Erik Matti has never been anyone’s go-to for fethisizing violence and OTJ is not so much a love letter to the domestic action film but rather an emasculation. Like the crime films of Jean Pierre Melville and Johnnie To, of which it's most kindred, it undercuts the romanticized masculinity of its noble rogues. With nihilism, with desperation, with nowhere to go and nothing to live for. But where Melville and To often saw these as conduits to an existential apotheosis, sometimes to a grudging redemption, Matti sees it more as a fatalistic cul-de-sac. There is no working towards something here, except maybe a downward spiral.  Bereft of heroes as it is of hope, it's closer, really, in temperament , in worldview, in its spatial confusions, in the harsh economy of its combat, in the blighted void that passes for its world, to a less recombinant, far purer iteration of noir. 

The contours of the characters bear that out. Joey Marquez, he’s “real po-lice”, paying the price for playing by the rules by languishing in the lower rungs of bureaucratic obscurity. His career is a stupor, and the one case that pries him from it has to get taken over by someone above his pay grade, Piolo Pascual's bright young NBI over-achiever. Joel Torre, meanwhile, is role-playing the weathered guru to brash protégé Gerald Anderson, both are doing hard time but moonlighting as hatchet men, working hard for the money, voguing on the thrill. Cops and killers, and all the things they are to each other, may be the coin of its realm but OTJ refuses to mine their propensity for symbiosis and overlap, that old Holmes slash Moriarty schism. These four men don't mirror each other. They're chess pieces, stacked on opposite sides. And the pulp tropes from which they're hewn are as familiar as the polarities that impel them: the friction when the new school rubs up against the old, the siege mentality of mis-matched partners, the Oedipal tensions between father figure and pretender to the throne. All of these get hinted at, none of which get belabored, leaving all four with enough room to shape-shift their stereotypes as far away from genre cliches as they can.

The kids (Pascual, Anderson) are alright, sure. But this is an old man's game. Marquez is a knockout, and he doesn't even bother reining in the comic persona that has become his stock in trade. He is, in many ways, the same well-meaning buffoon he played in, say, Bobocop, but locates, underneath the wise-cracks and the bluster, a rumpled melancholia, a casual sense of his own doom. And Torre, perhaps aware that he's such a shoo-in for the part as to be almost typecast and predictable, refuses to play up to expectations. He falls back, doesn't hurry, let's us snipe him as he slowly and subtly tinges his wizened composure with a dolorous solemnity that eventually becomes his ascension. The man not only wears gravity well, he fucking defies it, too.



Quick Change
Directed and Written by Eduardo Roy Jr.

Directed by Mikhail Red 
Written by MIkhail Red and Ian Victoriano

Directed by Hannah Espia 
Written by Hannah Espia and Giancarlo Abrahan

Quick Change: Aren't all stories found? Props, then, for stumbling on a genuine, and genuinely deviant, alternative milieu, thickened into a rancid consistency by the sumptuous cinematography. The parts that work here are the parts that immerse itself in the work, that is, bootleg plastic surgery. The desperate tinge of cul-de-sac lives circling their eventual oblivions, the insidious threat of body horror, which this essentially is. Even if we only get to see what happens when a procedure goes horribly wrong once, the discomfort over what these transgenders are doing to their bodies worms away, all icky and squeamish, at the back of my head through the parts that don't work. That would be the parts in-between, where it gropes for back story to fill in the gaps and starts favoring plot and melodrama over texture and verisimilitude.

Rekorder: Everything it wants to say below the surface, about voyeurism and the film/video schism and how the lines between reality and the perception of reality are blurring, Mikh has said more poetically in his short Kamera. And why is it that every time someone pontificates about how wondrous and unattainable the second Golden Age of Philippine Cinema is, it sounds more and more like the death howls of dinosaurs? The exhausted aura does make odd sense given the conditions of its universe.  And Ronnie Quizon has enough presence to center everything as a man for whom time has all but stopped, which the obsolete camcorder he uses to bootleg films semiotically reinforces. The scuzz-noir textures that swaddle his downward spiral never quite tip the film over into the mindfuck you hope it would, but the empathic tug of his displaced, taciturn cameraman is sufficient enough to at least make the reveal at the end hit a nerve.

Transit: Diaspora and the ways in which it impacts the lives of OFWs is a rich vein to tap but often falls prey to over-exalting the sacrifices they make as something that practically warrants sainthood. That the OFWs here are ordinary people eking out a living, who actually find some measure of contentment and happiness in their work and their adopted country, is a unique wrinkle in and of itself for the way it avoids the usual tropes of misplaced heroism, of oppression, of homesickness. It's another form of separation anxiety that shadows the migrant family at its heart: the threat of their children being deported as ordained by Israeli law, a fact that the extraneous coda reiterates with factoids. A
s if we needed reminding. As if it didn't trust the emotional brunt of its own narrative, really, which, by splintering itself into six POVs and by refusing to reduce the structure to serve yet another haggard Rashomon riff, gains a plangent rhythm. Repetitive, cyclical, not unlike the digging of a hole,  but aptly closing in on its own claustrophobia as its characters' small world gets even smaller and smaller until there's little left near the end but a chokehold. 



Before Midnight
Directed by Richard Linklater
Written by Richard Linklater, Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke

The next book Ethan Hawkes' Jesse wants to write teases connections between a random group of people separated by decades and afflicted with the oddest mental disorders: one is in a perpetual state of deja vu, another recognizes everybody, another fixates on what something becomes when it stops being the thing that it is, characters that are not so much lost in time but in perceptions of time. Later on, Julie Delpy’s Celine tells the story of a friend who attains clarity and purpose when he’s told he has nine months to live. She might as well be talking about the first time she and Jesse met cute, wandering around Vienna nearly two decades ago, all the time in the world condensed into one day, lives unmapped with no line on the horizon, everything heightened by the limits that constrict them. And Jesse might as well be talking about the two of them now, older and misshapen and unkempt and haggard and confused, living together with twin daughters in tow, on holiday in resplendent Greece, trapped by their routines and anxieties and displacements and by the collapse of time around them. Time has always wormed its way inside their love story, but here, in its third, possibly final, or at least penultimate, act, time is less tactile and more diffuse, a lot of it has been lost and even more is running out.

Conversation is the ether of the Before films. And in this one, a lot of it orbits around death: emotional death, metaphorical death, physical death. How all we have in the end are ghosts. And how the world takes glee in blowing them to smoke. The impossibility of staying together crops up and there’s such nonchalance and pragmatism, such contingency and rationale, every time it gets talked about that when Jesse remembers how his grandparents stayed together for 74 years and died one year apart as if impatient to be with each other again, it's as if he's articulating his own emotional revolt, not to mention the emotional conscience of the film, ushering in a specter to hover over everything in mutual defiance."You have to be a little deluded to keep being motivated" Jesse is talking about his writing but, at this point, who's he kidding?

We’ve been here before, of course. Before Sunset only seemed to leave everything wide open when it faded to black, but a part of you knew Jesse missing his plane was the likelier outcome, and a part of you knew their coming together would come to this. This is the familiarity breeding contempt, the cabin fever downside of intimacy, the part where things get messy. And Before Midnight is giddy with pattern recognition for anyone who’s ever been, or still is, in a long-haul relationship. The spar and volley of their bickering, if not the snark and venom but maybe that too, is bound to ring with the authenticity of experience, break some skin, force sides to be taken. But we’ve been here before in another way, too. Derek Cianfrance’s Blue Valentine and Abbas Kiarostami’s Copie Conforme have both strip-mined this lode and taken its ore to places far bleaker, far more obtuse. Before Midnight, tends to resonate entirely within the folds of its own universe. A universe in which Jesse and Celine have become our avatars for a love that defies the odds and are now entwined in the banalities that beset the rest of us and make it harder to believe in such things without thinking one's self foolish for doing so . But this is a universe, too, that has always been sustained by its own foolish beliefs, one of which is that love, if it will not conquer all, will at least delude you that it will.  When Jesse gives winning Celine back one last and desperate go by pretending he’s a time traveler with a letter from her future self, he could well be undoing the collapse of time that does all of us in. The hopeless romantic has been grossly mis-represented as a legalist who foolishly takes "ever after" literally. Jesse is obviously one and he obviously isn't that much of a fool.  He is, in all likelihood, pushing his luck. But maybe all "ever after" means is the energy to persist in playing the hand you've been dealt.  And sometimes leaving is the cop-out. It's not that simple, perhaps, but it sort of also is.



Pacific Rim
Directed by Guillermo Del Toro 
Written by Travis Beacham and Guillermo Del Toro

You can boil the essence of Pacific Rim down to two scenes. The first (see top picture) happens less than an hour into matters when a father and son's metal detector treasure hunt on a snowy beach is gate-crashed by a battle-damaged robot (called jaegers) stumbling out of the wintry mists and toppling on the ground in a heap of scrap. The second happens much later when a robot (that is, jaeger) fist in mid-combat punches through an office building and slides across the cheap carpeting, smashing through cubicles as it does.  Both scenes couldn't be more divergent from each other in terms of form and tone. The first is a frankly awesome extreme wide shot, momentous and grave, given its implications. The second is in close-up, extraneous almost but puckish and jokey. Both give you that crucial sense of scale that is god in kaiju as it is in mecha, the sub-genres being slavishly co-opted here and whose shared rubric is to make visceral the enormity of both the threat and the response. It becomes a leitmotif almost, this dissonance between sizes, not to mention the film's brightest moments, specially given the uncanny aptitude for detail that has made Guillermo Del Toro such a steadfast go-to when your dopey geek enterprises need leveling up: massive pincers slicing through a bridge, a section of HK that's called the Bone Slums out of how it's built around the ribcage of a decomposed monster, a glimpse of a cathedral built from a monster skull, a robot (again, jaeger) using a cargo ship in a tussle as if it were a baseball bat. 

Spiritually, philosophically, texturally, it's more Godzilla Versus Mechagodzilla than Neon Genesis Evangelion. Even then, there is far less fertile protein to build blockbuster cartilage from, toy lines for instance. The film wisely insulates itself within its B Film strictures, its lived-in density, resisting even an inch of deviation, matching it instead almost beat for beat, from the pulpy dialogue to the pseudo-science to the wartime gloom to the endtime metaphors, then pumping it up at all junctures, and with such a determined endgame that it becomes disingenuous to call it out for not going far enough with its characters, keeping nearly all of them, except perhaps Idris Elba's embattled leader Stacker Pentecost and  Ron Perlman's flamboyant war profiteer Hannibal Chau, within the tethers of their Hawksian archetypes and their Kirbyesque nomenclature.

Del Toro understands all too well how the heart can sweet-talk the head into succumbing to anything and, if nothing else,  he plays the inner child slash nostalgia card like a hustler. Come to this, then, purely on propulsion and the re-awakening of all your fancies as a boy and its dividends can be generous. It's a drag how the escalation in categories never manifests in the monsters' physiology, sure.  And a trifle distressing how the inside of the dimensional rift looks like a bad Uriah Heep album cover. Worst of all is how incoherent and sloppy the underwater climax is.  But, as with all the Ishiro Honda films it's obviously channeling, everything yields to the glorious skirmish between meat and machine that is what you and your inner Koji Kabuto really came here for.



Man of Steel
Directed by Zack Snyder
Screenplay by David Goyer 
Story by David Goyer and Christopher Nolan 

Superman is not one of us. That's the bit we take for granted. That's the bit we get profusely re-acquainted with here. That's the bit that may cause a lot of fanboy disgruntlement. Curb your devotions, then, if not totally abandon them, and with it, disregard continuity as well and lose whatever territorial claim you have on the character, which it to say that it might help not to come to this with your version of the character in your back pocket, which may well be the version of its creators, of its parent company, of the rest of the world, but is not necessarily the version Nolan/ Goyer/ Snyder have in mind. Let's move on, too, from Christopher Reeve, who was and is the quintessential Superman, may he rest in peace. And the Salkinds. And Brandon Routh and Dean Cain and Tom Welling, too.

Granted, the icon comes with a lot of puritan baggage, messianic gravities , mythic resonance. But all of these have no place in the ground zero parameters the film has set for itself. It's not like they've been stripped away, more like they don't exist yet.  This may not be demeanor befitting a superhero, except that in the world of Man of Steel, superheroes don't exist yet either. We can safely assume that the only Superman this world knows is Nietzche's (or Shaw's).  And all Clark Kent is, at this point,  is someone(thing?) from another world that hides in plain sight without a green card and under a false identity. He has all the circumstance of an illegal alien, really, pun intended. And is every bit as potentially against us as he is with us as a sleeper agent. He does have a compulsion for decency, but that can often be dangerous to misconstrue as a heroic impetus. He rescues people from bus accidents and oil rig fires, but you don't see him roughing up mobsters or swooping in on muggers. Fighting crime isn't exactly his calling. He's an orphan in a world he doesn't belong to. And he's lived a life repressing his true nature for its good. Also, he's got a lot on his mind. He's been outed. In the congested, intergalactic, multi-dimensional melting pot that is a comic book company's shared universe, he at least has the tactical advantage of looking more like us than, say, the man in black dressed like a bat, meaning his disguise doesn't look like one. In a world where he's the only extraterrestrial in town, though, it doesn't have quite the same cloaking effect.

The fundamental hubris of the comic books is in how a world in which Superman exists remains very much, if not exactly, like a world in which he doesn't, that is, like ours, with no severe re-structuring of belief systems and social structures,  and with no systematic and wholesale reprieve from such banal calamities as disease and famine and war, all of which Superman has, given his immense capabilities, and in isolated episodes throughout his seventy plus year run, either eradicated or quelled. This is essentially the anomaly Man of Steel is seeking to rehabilitate. It's not as if we see Superman intervening in Syria, not yet at least.  It still, for the most part, strip-mines the mythos for surplus, getting as many things right (Kevin Costner and Diane Lane as the Kents, Russell Crowe as Jor-el) as it does wrong (Krypton, Amy Adams as Lois Lane, Russell Crowe as a Jor-El AI that's equal parts expository mouthpiece and  guardian angel and deus ex machina) and it falters horribly when the Kryptonian characters stop to explain themselves, which is often and clumsily staged each time, halting everything in its tracks, undermining the efficiency of its time-jumping structure. But then, who cares what geek beats it hits and misses?  That gets boring after a while. It's the ramifications of having Superman exist in the real world that packs more voltage. And this, it gets right, too, mostly by co-opting Alan Moore's penultimate Miracleman issue (#15) in the third act and having Kryptonian insurgents, led by Michael Shannon as General Zod, lay waste to an entire metropolis in the hopes of terra-forming the Earth into the new Krypton.

The genocidal wave of carnage in the wake of the Kryptonian face-off is both overwrought and gloriously unhinged. The death toll, and Superman's callous disregard when it comes to preventing it, is almost nihilistic in its severity.  One can always argue that it's out of being weaponized without being honed. That the sun may have made him a god but didn't give him combat skills and moral wherewithal. And that if you take that away, he really is just as conflicted, as fallible, as the rest of us. Regardless, and flawed as he is, this is what it's like to have a god walk among us. This is the apocalyptic degree of the havoc he can wreak. And this is how helpless we are if he decides to lift a finger against us. A superhero movie about what a bad idea a superhero is.




"Lithium we know as a medication but one can misread it as a mediation and still nail it. The way it stabilizes frenzies that violently push and pull from both sides of the pole is a form of mediation, a truce of chaoses." (Notes on Lithium, Dodo Dayao)

He built a little village from the ground up, on a bluff in Zambales, then later burned it down, with gasoline and a makeshift torch. This was my first glimpse of Dante Perez’s prowess as a production designer. A potent image, for sure, but I’m resisting the urge to milk it for poetic effect as I don’t want to cloud this with anything less than forthright. Nor lay anything on too thick. One thing you probably won’t hear much mention of, in the flurry of well-wishing and reminisces, is how funny Dante Perez (Ka Dante to us) can be. And if this gets a little too maudlin, he’d probably crack a joke or two just to lighten the mood.

What this is exactly I’m not sure, though. A eulogy to a dead star. A valentine to a friend. A celebration of an artist. All of these, perhaps. But more than that, a way to make sense of someone leaving too soon. I realize it’s arrogant to assume one is privy to the caprices of the cosmos when it comes to comings and goings. I realize, too, that everybody ultimately gets a lifetime. And Ka Dante had one that was packed to the gills.

The tiny inferno in Zambales was also my first glimpse of the synergy he shared with Lav Diaz. Ka Dante was Lav’s collaborator and production designer and eventually actor, from Heremias up to Florentina Hubaldo CTE. It is, without argument, one of the most vital and robust collaborations in domestic independent cinema, of world cinema even. And yet it remained a largely unsung one. Which is how Ka Dante would have wanted it, I suppose. He was never a man drawn to the blare of the spotlight. He was always about the work. And he worked incessantly. He got restless when he wasn’t working. He drew comics, including an unfinished, wordless one about a Japanese straggler that he was going to show to me. He acted for other filmmakers, including Khavn De La Cruz in Mondomanila and Rico Ilarde in Pridyider. He made his own films, and his unflinching and often poignant feature-length documentary on Soliman Cruz, The Actor, has a raw, almost uncomfortable, honesty that makes its obscurity almost criminal. Before all this, of course, he painted. And had anyone known he wasn’t going to have another one-man show, the melancholia that permeated through his last, Lithium, would have seemed less residual and more prescient. The way Ka Dante explained it to me was that the new work was his means of grasping at transcendence. And much as the stark monochrome felt at first leeched of his usual color, his usual vibrancy, you do feel, in its place, a soothing sense of grace.

A couple of weeks before the opening of Lithium, Ka Dante and I were having a few beers at a Cubao X that seemed to be leeched of its vibrancy and color as well. It was a vibrancy and color we were familiar with and we missed. Six years ago, give or take, this was where our every night led us, talking about art and love and hope, all of us who were part of that ragtag community of like-minded friends who made films and wrote about films and worked on films and dreamed of films, and the future of the cinema we loved and the future of our lives as well was still fulsome, incandescent. That night, we talked instead about other things, about cycles running its course, about the parsimony of fate, about the infinite relief of art. But we talked about it in an oddly hopeful way, knowing full well we could easily rebuild that little village from the ashes anyway. And before he left us, Ka Dante, in many ways, did. “Sparkle”, apparently, was the last word he uttered. He was referring to the soft drink. But I prefer to think of it instead as an exhortation to all of us he left behind. Thank you and shine on yourself, Ka Dante. Shine on and live forever.

 *Lyric by Leonard Cohen
**This article originally appeared in the June 2, 2013 edition of PhilStar Sunday Lifestyle



Sir (Chabet) and I hardly talked about art. I was in his class for only a semester. But we've been hanging out since. We did talk a tremendous amount about cinema though, maybe because I was the only one among us who was sort of into it to the degree that I was. But I was a misguided Hollywood nerd and he took it upon himself to set me right. He was like my de facto cinema guru slash pimp. And he schooled me. Every time we saw each other, all these years, at drink-ups, at parties, at exhibits, he always had some filmmaker I had no idea about that he wanted me to seek out : Bernal, Zialcita , Godard, Buñuel, Elaine May, Mike Nichols, Howard Hawks, Alain Resnais. And like any good student, I did. And subsequently got hooked. 

He pushed this Antonioni film on me years ago, raving about the ending. I have since fallen in love with it hard and seen it many times. And in its own odd way, that desolate and beautiful finale makes the most fitting of codas for the occasion. 

Thank you, sir. 




"There is something heroic in a movie director who grasps his vision of the world and takes it, scorning compromise, to its irrevocable limit" (Anthony Lane on Bela Tarr's The Turin Horse)

There was quite a number of people who came to the Batang West Side screening at 2012's leaner and arguably meaner Cinemanila. Some were watching it for the first time. It was my second. And it had been so long, and I've been used to Lav's immersive long films, I’d forgotten how steeped it was in the ostensible rigidity of film school fundaments. Lav did have tenure at Mowelfund and made his first films under the studio system. But even before the film got a fifth of the way into its terse five hours, you could already feel him pulling away, defiant of the form. Batang West Side was, in many ways, the primordial jolt of our independent cinema, and here it was, 11 years after its premiere in the same festival, unwittingly re-acquainting us with the qualities that made the phenomenon such an intoxicating crucible when it first emerged, primarily the D.I.Y. aesthetic that was a game-changing “fuck you” to the studio way of making films, with its ruthless disregard for protocol, its insatiable curiosity for new modes of narrative, its restless tendency to go out on limbs. Its odd that I should get nostalgic about something that isn't even into its 20th year but 2012 was the year independent cinema crossed over, or attempted to cross over, and made 2001 seem like ages ago. In consorting with the mainstream, these qualities were marginalized even further, if not outright discouraged. A national cinema is healthiest if it can metabolize all disciplines of film.  But any whiff of art in the context of independent cinema tended to be scoffed at, by the public, by the producers, by the filmmaking community itself sometimes. And by art, I mean anything that aspired beyond the slim, and myopic, purview that entertainment is the end-all be-all of films.  What seemed to be exalted more was the ability of filmmakers to manage compromise more than their ferocity of will to either ignore or even obliterate it. Filmmakers with lofty ambitions or unorthodox processes were routinely dismissed as pretentious and impractical and wankers. Oh, we do uphold Lav Diaz and Kidlat Tahimik for their stubborn and tireless pursuit of art in their work, but our tributes mostly reek of tokenism and misplaced respect because we never go see their films anyway.

Having said that, and with at least three corporations giving grants, 2012 was, for what it’s worth, a year of plenty, and as anybody will remember the Cinemalaya brouhaha, a year of controversy. And the volume of output alone was cause to rejoice, particularly for those of us disheartened on a yearly basis by the aesthetic inertia of Hollywood and Star Cinema. There were so many films that my yearly sins of omission, those films I simply lacked the time and the resources to catch, doubled in number. I only saw one MMFF entry as of this writing, two from Cinemanila's Digital Lokal, both here, and none of the FDCP Sineng Pambansa films. But there was also, at some point, a danger of misconstruing quantity with quality. As well-made as many of last year’s films were, there was also a sense of pulling its punches, of coloring inside the lines, of  thinking inside the box,  of revoking its license to confuse,  for most of them. Prudish, conservative, safe. This is borne perhaps from a premature settling into its fickle comfort zones and a misguided desire to expand their demographic, a demographic that remained staunch in its indifference, in its determination to not show up. At least five independently-produced films got a brief, suspense-filled theatrical run in 2012. Suspense-filled because of how there was a daily threat of being pulled out of theaters from lack of traffic hovering over nearly every film, particularly, and oddly, the ones that were aggressively user-friendly, the ones that sold out their festival runs, the ones that gained a fervid cult following, the ones aided and abetted by an over-enthusiastic task force of hype.  2012 was the year in which persisted the folly that the only way for independent cinema to thrive was not only to compete head-on with The Dark Knight Rises and No Other Woman, but also on their playing fields and by their rules, not to mention that other folly that the masses, whose collective wisdom about movies is that they don't want to think while watching them, was somehow within reach. And nary a rustle of developing a viable and sustainable alternative venue system for independent cinema, and nurturing its current audience, was heard in the mad scramble to get into the malls.

The encouraging news amidst the slow mainstreaming of indie, if you will,  was that films continued to be made under the same envelope-pushing, anti-traditional , non-conformist, sometimes defiantly no-budget aegis independent cinema used to operate under. Not too surprisingly, some of those creative spurts were shorts: Jon Lazam's Nang Gabing Sinlaki Ng Puso Ang Bato Ni Darna, Victor Villanueva's Saranghae My Tutor, Erik Matti's Vesuvius, Khavn's Solar Syokoy, Carl Papa’s Ang Prinsesa, Prinsipe At Malborita. As a concession to the productivity that distinguished 2012, and also as a concession to loosening up a little, my yearend list has been expanded to 13. I left no room for films seen through means other than a public screening, which means all of the films I picked were all shown publicly here,  regardless of nature of venue and how long it ran. Which also means that, delightful as they were, you won't find mention of Leos Carax's Holy Motors or Johnnie To's Life Without Principle beyond this sentence. I also didn't separate the domestic from the foreign because I've always found that a little pointless.  And, lastly, after discarding honorable mentions years back, I must also holler empathic shout-outs to the following, the other films I liked a lot but simply did not have enough room for:  Joss Whedon's Avengers, Steven Soderbergh's Haywire, Ridley Scott's Prometheus, Michael Haneke's Amour, Rico Ilarde's Pridyider, Erik Matti's Rigodon,  Emerson Reyes' MNL 143, Gym Lumbera's Anak Araw,  Richard Somes' Mariposa (Sa Hawla Ng Gabi),   Whammy Alcazaren's Colossal,  Benito Bautista's Harana and Brillante Mendoza's Thy Womb. All of these were flawed, some even terribly so, but then again, the most exciting cinema always is.

1. Florentina Hubaldo CTE (Lav Diaz, Philippines, Cinemanila):
If  Siglo Ng Pagluluwal (Century of Birthing), the first film Lav completed in the four years after Melancholia and the one that came before this, had a palpably transitory aura, a sense that he was severing ties with his old aesthetic, and that he was, at times,  fumbling for a new one, this feels like he'd at last stumbled on it and that it has come to a fiery bloom. At some point, you sense that the desperate men digging for desperate treasure and the eponymous young woman sold into prostitution by her own malefic father and spiraling into insanity are meant to embody the blunt force trauma suffered by a country that is inexorably cannibalizing itself.  It is, but the assumption comes more from a familiarity with the way Lav writes rather than any didacticism on his part. His politics remain fulsome and robust, sure, but his poetry has become intensely given over to a renewed faith in the eloquence of restraint and silences.

2. Kalayaan (Adolfo Borinaga Alix Jr., Philippines, Cinemalaya): If nothing else, this was the year we contemplated, however blithely or flippantly, the possibility, if not the imminence,  of our own wholesale extinction and there was no film quite as attuned to such apocalyptic tenor as Adolf's slow burning meditation on the existential isolation that besets us all, set ironically enough in the recent past, and in the Spratly Islands at that,  a politicized tract of land as barren of its impositions as it is haunted by its implications. And this ravishing fragment of paradise on earth comes at a price : the damning ennui of disconnectedness and the slow descent into hallucination that is the only way out of it.

3. This Is Not A Film (Jafar Panahi, Iran, Active Vista) : Here is Jafar's sly, often funny riposte against the regime that placed him under house arrest with a gag order from making films hanging over his head. Given the circumstances of its inception and its eventual distribution, though, shot  in the house he was prohibited to leave and smuggled to Cannes inside a USB drive hidden in a cake, here, too, is a stripping down to the cogs of the independent filmmaking process, the pushing against limits, the indomitable ferocity of spirit, the prevailing against adversities, the triumph of the will. 

4. Post Tenebras Lux (Carlos Reygadas, Mexico, Cinemanila):  Is Reygadas an emperor wearing new clothes? Or a street magician engaged in some deliberately obtuse arthouse sleight of hand? And is the illusion compromised if he was one or the other?Part rebus, part hubris, family is the organizing principle in what is his most abstract work, maddening for the way it not only risks the befuddlement we are wired to resist, but somehow twists that very befuddlement into its source of catharsis. No matter what theories you derive out of  the images lashed together here, this semblance of clarity, this made-up order, will ultimately lack the visceral satisfaction of the exquisite confusion you're better off embracing instead.

5. In Another Country (Hong Sang Soo, Korea, Cinemanila): Each and every film in Hong's entire ouevre is a variation on themes, those themes being the ways in which relationships constantly shapeshift yet somehow remain the same, and also the ways in which the men in these relationships, Korean men in particular, can be such douches. Here he throws a Caucasian into the mix, several ones really but all played by Isabelle Huppert, and each one unversed in Korean,  and touches, with his usual lithe playfulness, with his sprightly grasp of the surreal, on the lopsided interplay that occurs between Asians and Westerners, the way they grope around the language barriers, their desperation to communicate, and the new language that emerges from the dissonance and misunderstanding.

6. Ang Paglalakbay Ng Bituin Sa Gabing Madilim (Arnel Mardoquio, Philippines, Cinema One Originals/ Cinemanila):  The revolutionary as zealot can be a reductive misnomer, and in attempting to untwine the intricacies of the Bangsamoro conflict, Arnel dismantles the image by training his contemplative, minimalist gaze instead on the relationship troubles of a rebel couple who also happen to be lesbians, and who also happen to be exhausted by the struggle, as they attempt to evade soldiers who are after the hot cache of ransom money they lug around. Their striking out for friendlier territory is languid and fractious and digressive, but also sometimes becalmed and hopeful, mirroring not only their own malfunctioning determination to stay together, but their own yearning to escape both the demands of their cause and the strictures of their faith.

7. Mamay Umeng (Dwein Tarhata Baltazar, Philippines, Cinema One Originals): A film about a man who can't wait to die,  about the slow action of a life unbothered by incident, about tedium, really, is bound to be, well, tedious, and  any chance it has at being emotionally involving, let alone being funny or poignant, neutered by its very nature. In theory. But there's a sense of space and  minutiae and quietude to this that is more bemusing than it is boring, and somehow defies all that, possessed as it is of a frail grace that is kept from dissipating into banality by the wry passivity of  the man outliving himself at the heart of it.

8. Jungle Love (Sherad Anthony Sanchez. Philippines, Cinemanila): Pleasure is the last thing you expect to take away from a work by Sherad, whose ethnographic reveries always seemed in the grip of some sober, enigmatic gravity. Not that this  piece of semiotic erotica abandons the veil of mystery entirely but it's more ornamental than forbidding, its uncharacteristic playfulness coming from how this is really a tone poem about seduction and disappearance but wearing the ghostly skin of a pop song about love and salvation and liking how it feels better.

9. Taglish (Gym Lumbera, Philippines, Cinemanila): Language, specifically Tagalog, the dialect of Gym’s native Batangas, and the duplicities and entropies visited on it that the title hints at, illuminates the duplicities and entropies of his film. The second half (Tagalog) is a dark, rueful love story and the first half (English) is what happened after the actual film got damaged in a flood. Mashed up, it's a narrative, in many ways, of wounded longing, for a love forever tainted by infidelity,  for a simpler life that's a stone's throw away yet out of reach. But it lingers more as a subtext on how much art is an Other that is never fully subservient to the control of its artist.

10, Pascalina (Pam Miras, Philippines, Cinema One Originals): Essentially the travails of a small girl in a big city but fed through the jittery muck you attain from shooting on a Digital Harinezumi,which comes off less as an outlaw impulse, and goes beyond mere mood-setting into the more aggressively contextual utility of peeling the skin off the titular fuckup's mundane history to reveal how everybody, from her sisters to her boyfriend to her dying aunt, the only person who has the temerity to tell her "I love you", has fangs sheathed inside them and the only way for her to make it through the eternal, grotty night that has become her so-called life is to dance with the devil she knows and spring the catch on her own secret monstrosity.

11. Argo (Ben Affleck, USA, Domestic Release): Funny how we fall back on aphorisms like 'old school' when we talk about this, and by ‘old school’ we mean the 70s when Hollywood had not quite mastered the fluency with which it now speaks the language of theme parks.  
Not to say that the deliberate lack of flash and spectacle is its only achievement, of course, but the piston driving it is really its back-handed spoof on that whole period when Hollywood was metamorphosing into an event movie factory, cinema as rollercoaster.You do get dubious about its textural authenticity given how it has the tone and energy and the manipulative wiles of a pop thriller,  except that its preposterous, albeit true to life, conceit practically demands that specific immediacy and tautness to ground it.

12. Give Up Tomorrow (Michael Collins and Marty Syjuco, USA-Philippines, Domestic Release): The title swings both ways, as a tweak on that exhortation to procrastinate your surrender or a handing over of your future to someone else. For Paco Larrañaga, it's his mantra of resolve, languishing in jail these past 14 years for the infamous murder of the Chiong Sisters, a crime he vehemently claims he didn't commit, a claim that's bulletproof with corroboration but, to a corrupt justice system, has become as flimsy as a shield cut out of cardboard. It doesn't exactly let us forget that at the other end of its subject's wrongful incarceration, and the Kafkaesque conspiracy that swirls around it, are two dead girls and their devastated parents, and it may all be a function of our own instincts for narrative, but that we somehow do forget, even briefly, is also where the film derives its current of dangerous, harrowing ambivalence.

13. Magic Mike (Steven Soderbergh, USA, Domestic Release): Soderbergh has been on such a streak of win, his last six films have all but  overturned my lingering reservations about him, to the point that this is the second year in a row wherein his work earned a slot in the compendium. Brazenly heterosexual and leeched of danger, there's obviously a rosy tint to his vision of the male stripper lifestyle that, while it docks no points for veracity, has that wildly abandoned flavor of zest that befits a swoony valentine to hedonism.


"I don't see that there are any particular changes in popular music." Lester Bangs

I don't remember pop ruling my world to the degree with which it ruled my 2012, an odd thing, as I've always been a staunch believer. But then again, pop ruled 2012 to a similar degree that it could all be osmosis.  And by pop, I mean not just catchy but catchy with ubiquity. And by ubiquity, I mean stuff that you hear everywhere and that everybody knows, that somehow blur the hierarchies you impose between your obscurantist hipster self-entitlement and the obliviousness and nonchalance with which ordinary folk approach their music. 

But Rebecca Black's Friday can go fuck itself. I'm talking more of songs like  Gotye and Kimbra's Someone That I Used To Know, PSY's Oppa Gangnam Style, Carly Rae Jespen's Call Me Maybe. Ubiquity of this sweep, of course, tends to breed contempt, except the production and the songwriting on these three numbers was almost irrevocably impeccable, enough at least to buttress and sustain its viral longevity.  I do realize I'm speaking for myself, as all three have its detractors crusading against them with all the zeal and vitriol better reserved for more nefarious moral transgressions. It's a little sad, and not a little pathetic, when people put so much outrage and energy into railing against pop music, although I make an exception when the target of ire is 6Cyclemind or Rocksteddy.

In the light of my own issues with all this misdirected and self-righteous indignation, I took to pop for the spirit of lightening up that is its ore. Which is not to say I've dumbed myself down, musically. But I think there's a way to succumb to the pleasures of frivolity without succumbing to its inconsequence. Not to mention the immense benefits, musically and otherwise.  Not all of this is pop in the strictest sense, of course. And looking at it now, R & B (Up Dharma Down, AlunaGeorge, Jessie Ware, Solange, Usher) and New Wave (Wild Nothing, Frankie Rose, Grimes, Churches, even that Springsteen song)  seem to be  the more pervasive musical strands threading through most of them. There's also a lot of belated returns to guitar crash and tumble (Japandroids, Divine Fits, Gaslight Anthem, Walkmen). And a healthy smattering of my usual relevant fogies (Mould, Weller, Mariah, Dylan, Womack, Blur, Rebecca Gates, Saint Etienne). A mixed bag, sure, but it  almost always is, essentially.

My caveats this year, the only time I've found it necessary to invoke one since I began this, is the lack of an album list and , more significantly, of annotations for the songs.  I haven't immersed myself  in the new records by Pinback, Frank Ocean, Paul Buchanan, Jens Lekman, Ne-Yo and Gravenhurst thoroughly enough to make a proper assessment but I mention them out of the potential I glean from my first cursory listens. The vacuum of writing on the individual songs is simply a casualty of lack of time, which is a foul thing sometimes but is all too real and often difficult to address. As the world didn't end as scheduled, which we of course knew it wouldn't, life went on, just that there was, and there still is, too much of it going on. I can only ask for your forgiveness in this matter and offer a conciliatory promise to make sure this doesn't happen next year. At least I don't have sloth as an excuse anymore.

Disclaimers aside, the usual rules apply. Most of these are album tracks rather than singles, but some of them are singles,too, because such is life. There are a lot of other songs I liked, sure, but in the name of stringency, these are the 50 that mattered most, and matter still. In descending order.

1. Up Dharma Down, Thinker
2. Carly Rae Jespen, Call Me Maybe
3. Wild Nothing, Shadow
4. Bagetsafonik, Airports
5. Ang Bandang Shirley, Iyong
5. Dan Deacon, True Thrush
6. Alabama Shakes, Hold On
7. Paul Weller, That Dangerous Age
8. Sky Ferreira, Everything Is Embarrassing
9. AlunaGeorge, Your Drums Your Love
10. Mariah Carey with Meek Mill and Rick Ross, Triumphant
11. School of Seven Bells, The Night
12. The Gaslight Anthem, 45
13. Kindness, House
14. Tennis, Origins
15. Chairlift, I Belong In Your Arms (Japanese Version)
16. Bruce Springsteen, We Take Care of Our Own
17. Spazzkid, Touch
18. Father John Misty, Nancy From Now On 
19. The Walkmen, The Witch
20. Johnny Marr, The Messenger
21. Japandroids, Continuous Thunder
22. Divine Fits, Would That Not Be Nice
23. Eleanor Friedberger, My Mistakes
24. Frankie Rose, Know Me
25. Rufus Wainwright, Out of the Game
26. Bobby Womack and Lana Del Rey, Dayglo Reflection
27. Cody ChestnuTT, Til I Met Thee
28. Nite Jewel, She's Always Watching You
29. Allo Darlin', Wonderland
30. Jessie Ware, Running
31. iLikeTrains, Mnemosyne
32. A Dark Horse, These Butterflies Are Free
33. Solange, Losing You
34. Let's Buy Happiness, It Works Better On Paper
35. Dirty Projectors, About To Die
36. Rebecca Gates and the Consortium, & & &
37. Churches, Lies
38. Best Coast, The Only Place
39. The Hundredth Anniversary, Slip
40. Memory Tapes, Sheila
41. Usher, Climax
42. Blur, Under the Westway
43. Bob Mould, The Descent
44. Sleigh Bells, The Comeback Kid
45. Saint Etienne, Tonight
46. Bob Dylan, Duquesne Whistle
47. Mount Eerie, I Walked Home Beholding
48. The Soft Moon, Zeros
49. Grimes, Vowels=Space and Time
50. David Guetta with Sia, Titanium