THERE is a fantastic (read: engaging and full of fantasy characters) telenovela on ABS-CBN. It is called 100 Days to Heaven and tells of the story of a woman named Anna Manalastas, played by Coney Reyes, who dies and is not allowed into Heaven. She is allowed to make amends and is given 100 days to be good to those she has hurt. As with all journeys back to life, there is always a rule, a taboo set. In ancient tales, characters in order to be saved are commanded not to look or turn their back to the earthly scenes of destruction. Anna is allowed literally to look back; thus she is back on earth as a child, in the form that she was when she was a child.

The twist gives us an actor—not a child actor but an actor—in the form of a little girl. Her name is Xyriel Manabat. Banish the family name and that name is the name of an alien.

Manabat because she is so good, is really a mature actor trapped in a cute and charming little girl’s body. Onscreen, she manifests all the mannerisms of a mature person in the character she plays. She is supposed to be the young Anna/Reyes but one realizes that we are not “supposing” anything in and with her.

She channels the person of Anna and she recalls in many nuanced ways the grown-up and adult persona of Reyes playing Anna.

For those who avidly follow this drama, notice how Manabat the actor sits and how she folds her hands on her lap. Look at how she twitches her lips. Marvel at how she delivers the dialogs. Be aware of the tremendous memory. Take note of how she does not have the irritating mannerisms of child actors and their vocal inflections. Then scan those eyes. Train your eyes on those eyes. Her scenes work because of how she looks at things, or how she manages to convey how she looks at things. While her build is tiny, the storyline must convince us that she is really a grown woman. Her age is in those eyes.

Her eyes. Those eyes. They are my problem.

They are not a child’s eye. They are the eyes of a person who listens to problems of the heart.

We often tell ask ourselves why we luxuriate in the pool of the eyes of a child. And we know the answer: the eyes of a child are open—open to all possibilities, to anything at all. They do not claim any territory. They do not moralize. They do not take sides.

The child’s eyes do not judge.

The eyes of Manabat work because they can be judgmental. They take sides.

What happened? Am I imagining things and ascribing the magical power of a great performer to this child that will for quite a time be categorized as child actor?

My problem and my questions do not end with those eyes. What takes place in the studio between the child actor and the director, or her handlers?

I imagine two scenarios: one, where the director tells Manabat what the next scene will be and what reactions are expected of her; another, where the director merely reads to her the lines and teaches her how to deliver them.

In the first scenario, the director must tell the young girl details and flesh out from subtexts modifiers and nouns that we otherwise would not allow our little boys and girls to listen to and, much more, understand. We generally spare our children from the crisis of adulthood until such time when they can handle the vocabulary of that difficult universe.

In the second scenario, the producers and the director pray to the heavens that the little girl be the mimic that young performers generally are. In this situation, Manabat must acquit herself in the art of imitating, with the end-result of a performance that is half-ham and half-heartfelt. But that is not the case.

During the few nights that I watched this very young performer, I could not help but annotate and disrupt everyone as I stated what seems to be given and obvious to the fans: that Manabat is utterly convincing as the woman who dies, is not allowed by St. Peter to enter the Pearly Gates and is now condemned for one hundred days to rectify errors even as she does these tasks as a young girl—with the eyes of an adult.

My observation may sound flippant, even trivial, but I do believe we have a serious case here. Is the child who acts out a scene ever aware that the scene is a mere scenario? That it is not real?

We like to believe that the redemption for the child takes place when the child is convinced that it is playacting?

Manabat is a good actor, this we know. Will this save her?

Stretch the scenario: make the scene sexual and a young child is engaged to perform the role of one who is sexually abused. As the script calls for it, the action is done and the child is pretend-touched. On the the set are psychologists and counselors. The parents of the child have prepared and oriented the child about the scene. This is pretend rape. This is pretend abuse.

I am anxious to find out: will the child be able to tell the real and the reel?

Last night, I watched Manabat again go through some scenes. She watches a couple fight. Tears copiously flow and anger and passion are killing the young man and woman fighting, The burden of making them reconcile lies on the soft shoulders of the young girl cursed by the heavens.

I am not worried. I truly believe Manabat is an alien and she will survive the violence of the stories she sees. n