FOR almost nine hours on November 16, we deliberated on the merits of the 10 films competing in the 2014 Cinema One Originals film festival. By the time this column comes out, the awards night would be over and the results known. The week that would follow would be filled with gnashing of teeth and accusations. I’m exaggerating perhaps but in this republic of ours, judging a film is almost judging the morality of the entire population. Every time a film we root for and the actors whose victory we prayed for days do not win, we take the loss personally.
How personal can judging be? That was the question I asked myself in silence in the face of two foreign jurors in the jury: Benjamin Illos of France and Paolo Bertolin of Italy. The four other jurors—Richard Bolisay, film critic; Eric Matti, film director; Angeli Bayani, actress; and myself—are all Filipinos. The four of us are immersed in the local industry compared to Benjamin and Paolo, who are knowledgeable of cinema and the film industry in the international scene. Between them and us, we had the burden of extracinematic elements—those things that are outside the film, the art form, or the medium we were watching. We know personally some of the directors competing in the filmfest; we count as friends many of the actors in the films in contention. We know the gossip behind the personalities, not that gossip and rumors play a significant part in the judging of acting and film. But these behind-the-scenes data are there, creepers on the wall, irritants in our vision
There were 10 films competing. Perhaps the moviegoer will ask: What happens during the deliberation? As I entered the hotel where we would be holed throughout the entire afternoon and for the most part of the evening, I got a bit anxious after learning that the room for the deliberations had been reserved till past 10 in the evening. Would we survive the long hours, equivalent to the daily grind of a public servant without overtime pay?
The room got uncomfortably cold and after coffee, the four of us went to the terrace of the handsome hotel and spoke informally about the films we had sat through, our impressions, and our early favorites. There were early signs of the problem of consensus: We seem to have polarized aesthetics.
The first snacks we ordered arrived. Salads and sandwiches and even soup at 4 in the afternoon, soda and tea and more soda. We then went back to the room assigned to us and began discussing some more. The exchanges got more focused, and the comments were specific. We were tossing the films in our mind as we did the lettuce and the apple cubes in the salad bowl. This night would be a super-stressor, and the bountiful food on the table seemed a dreadful sign.
The other two jurors were not yet around when the four of us started making a short list out of the ten. Whoa!—we converged on our three choices for Best Sound. Not bad for the first impression that we would end the night without coming to any sweet agreement. Some people may think that the most efficient way of coming up with a winner is through voting. That is a cop-out. I still believe in struggling with my choice and listening to other preferences. I hope also that the other film critics will listen to my choices even as they hold on and fight for their preferences.
At the end of the day, er, night, there was a tie for Best Actor and my first and sentimental choice for the best in that category was left out of the nomination. That actor was Joel Lamangan in Violator.
Now, this thought of mine cannot diminish the importance of the two young men who were ended up standing onstage in Dolphy Theater as they valiantly fought tears and fumbled through their speeches because they are young and they have been declared the best in that particular league.
But before them, there was Joel Lamangan. The buzz was: Lamangan has found an alternate or parallel career, a second wind. Or, rather, the film industry has found in Lamangan a brilliant character actor, more sterling than the character actors he peoples his works.
Lamangan plays a chief cop in Violator. At the beginning of the film, he sits alone at the table. A monologue ensues where his character loudly asks if he could complete his day of coffee by smoking. At the foreground, a shadow appears and moves stealthily. It is his dead wife reminding him through the haze that smoking is bad for his health. A piece of kundiman floats in the background, a music so rare that it is only relevant to Lamangan’s police. He is near retirement and he belongs to a generation that is fast fading, an impending rarity like the song that entreats in the film.
Cryptic lines accompany the body of Lamangan that is at repose not because of a desire to rest and recreate, but because the man appears to be have forgotten about gesture. He talks quietly and in profile, the preferred shots of this film, Lamangan exhibits the most chilling of loneliness. He is only here because the quotidian desire is to exist; otherwise, he is like Alice who doesn’t live here anymore. If there is one scary person in this film—and there are many—it is this policeman created by Joel Lamangan. The cop seems on the brink of nervous breakdown, but his gloom is so ordinary and regular that we believe he will always swing back and be happy again. The nuanced acting of Lamangan convicts us to admit the thin line between sadness and death. Joel Lamangan is so good in being the messenger of both life and death that we assume a force in the universe will take him away and return to us bones that become his repository of grief and resignation.
I believe we will be seeing more of Joel Lamangan before the camera than behind it. That is great news.
The other good news is Andy Bais who as Mang Vic, the police precinct janitor, represents the splendor of menace. He is scared but he is also scary. Bais’s Mang Vic is terrifying because he hides his crime and, at the same time, professes innocence. Ultimately gripping is what Andy Bais shows in those quiet scenes, his conviction that he is innocent. In fact, most repulsive of all is the notion that Mang Vic will never admit to his crime because even if we crack open his brain, there will never be in that gray matter anything about guilt and admission. When I saw him at the awards night, he admitted to channeling his idol, Nora Aunor. (Who better to channel?) In scenes where there was no dialog, indeed one could see Andy Bais possessed by Bona hours moments before she threw the basin of scalding hot water on the bodyguard awaiting to be bathed. Andy is Elsa without the apparition, and Fe, Esperanza and Caridad in all their horror glory.
But at the end of the day, there were two best actors. Sandino Martin and Matt Daclan. Sandino Martin in Esprit d’ Corps is this young student lured into the mystical machismo of military training and male bonding. Inside the interrogation room, Sandino Martin exhibits taut muscles and tortured mind. Outside, his memory is that of abuse. He is an actor grand with his body and with his mind. He issues his body to be exploited; he keeps his mind away from tactile attacks. Vulnerability has never been this sexual. It takes youth to bring us to the Garden before the Fall.
Matt Daclan in Soap O Pera delivers a performance that is touching and lamentable as well. He is a weak partner until the worst comes to his child. He roars and keens and demands explanation at a time when words do not make sense anymore. In Cebuano Matt Daclan finds a language he could twist, tease and tether to any emotional register. And what a range!