Segments of appreciation, total admiration
Maybe Lav Diaz is an experimental genius who creates his own film language as hieroglyphs, the way the Egyptians documented their state of affairs in frozen, single-file procession.
(Conclusion)
Hugo is often shown pounding away at his manual typewriter. He never follows Lorena to that far-away barrio ruled by the bullyboys, despite his having expressed concern over its remoteness. When he finally searches for her, presumably after her long disappearance, he wanders about the empty town, sleeps by himself on what seems to be a beach.
• In one scene, Hugo comes to the rescue of Paham who’s being beaten up by the La-la-la-lah bullyboys. So he gets struck down himself. But the bad guys let them off and just retreat with their long arms.
• Now who kills off one of the bad guys and leaves him prostrate by the river? The lead bully actually wails away upon this discovery. Why, they’re also human after all.
• No, we can’t expect common logic in a Lav Diaz film. He operates within his own remarkable radius of experimentation. This is what he wants to do.
• More mysteries. A boy flies paper airplanes in the forest. He doesn’t seem to be related to anyone. The Bituin Escalante character often appears beside Hugo. As expected, she sings powerfully. Maybe as a lone Greek chorus, advancing the narrative. Or as a Cassandra.
• The sound design is as technically proficient as the cinematography. Bursts of light render some scenes ethereal. And of course when Lorena sings by herself in the dark forest, strange smoke filters in as backdrop, beyond the trees.
• So what are the chanted lyrics like? How is Lav as a lyricist? Provocative, at the very least. “Ang tao’y di nagbago / naniniwala sa multo / kasinungalingan ay nagiging totoo / huwag kayong magpapaloko / huwag maniwala sa kulto…”
• The bullyboys chant about the need for order. The stark polemics are weirdly funny, especially since both of the contending sides punctuate the chanted discourse with the La-la-la-lah refrain.
• “Kailan ka babangon para sa iyong bayan / kailan ka lalaban para sayong panahon / gumising ka, o anak ng bayan / nasaan na ang anak ng bayan / gumising ka, o anak ng bayan… La-la-la-lah…”
• An open forum follows the screening, with the producers and some of the cast relating their experiences and fielding questions from the audience. It’s announced that Lav is in New York tending to a grandchild. But that he’s just sent a message: “Panahon na sa pakikibaka ng husto.”
• Someone comments smartly on the apparent paradox of accessibility if one of the film’s aims is to awaken the masa. It’s really for cineastes, not even for the majority of the elite.
• Someone in the panel recounts how they had once screened a Lav Diaz slow film at a town plaza. Part of a turnover audience availed themselves of the mats that were provided. Some fell asleep, but more of the youths stayed up throughout the night.
• It’s understandable for certain moviegoers to fall asleep during a Lav Diaz screening, not only due to the inordinate length, but because of the distinct film language he employs. Some walk out, not just because of a freezing theater. Some take breaks to relieve themselves, or indulge in an hourly habit done outdoors. Some go for foot-long hot dogs.
• It’s all right. Appreciation of extended slow film can be segmented, with thumbs up for certain instances of film brilliance such as what Lav is highly capable of. But it’s what he likes to do, and he’s earned acclaim, especially in Europe where his oeuvres have met with critical appreciation and awards to die for.
• Those of us still steeped in fast film adulation can only appreciate his works in segmented fashion, love some parts but reserve judgment on their totality as enjoyable cinema. What we cannot deny is grudging to total admiration for Lav’s guts to stay the course and remain authentic.
• Hey, Philip Glass’ minimalist music has much fewer fans than that of Elvis’. Not everyone can follow Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow without getting annoyed.
• Maybe Lav Diaz is an experimental genius who creates his own film language as hieroglyphs, the way the Egyptians documented their state of affairs in frozen, single-file procession.
• We can grant him that. We’re assured that he’s not beholden to hack work. He’s not the type to mine poverty porn and come up with a boring, one-dimensional Netflix series meant to justify EJKs while earning brownnosing keep.
• It’s not just a matter of relevance. “Kailangan kasing merong gumawa ng ganitong pelikula,” ani Lav.
• Never mind plot and character arcs. His films are by turns contemplative, evocative, haunting, ambiguous, symbolic, hypnotic…
• If his next slow film features silent dancers in slow motion, with freeze frames serving as highlights after every three or four scenes, while the allegorical narrative serves up painful reality in spades, why, then that’ll just be one more step in his resolute path through genius loci. Steadfastly, he invokes and preserves the spirit of place.
• That’s what Lav Diaz does. He filters and distills spirits. A sense of nationhood is thus served as a potent brew. You can chill it with ice, water it down, or take it straight on the slow chin. But you will remember the taste and flavor of genuine nationalism.
