The good times, the bad times & the kitschy
July 25, 2004 | 12:00am
"Why should we hear about body bags and deaths? Oh, I mean, it’s not relevant. So why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?"– Barbara Bush on ABC’s Good Morning America, March 18, 2003
Imelda Marcos and Barbara Bush seem to have much in common, as a viewing of the Ramona S. Diaz documentary Imelda makes clear. Neither former first lady can bear the thought of unpleasantness interfering with their conception of beauty. In the case of Mrs. Bush, it was rude questions about her son’s handling of the Iraq war, which she swatted away like pesky bluebottles.
In the case of Mrs. Marcos, the effervescent star of this documentary (it is, after all, a documentary, despite what Mrs. Marcos would like to believe), beauty is love is truth is cosmic harmony, and anything that conflicts with her mythical view on such matters is really… quite irrelevant. If not actionable.
Mrs. Marcos’ efforts to restrain the showing of Imelda on her home turf appear to have backfired: the premiere audience I was with spilled over onto extra plastic chairs lining the exit lanes. Before the showing began, we were regaled by a bouncy one-hit wonder from the ‘70s, More Today Than Yesterday by Spiral Staircase. It played over the loudspeakers again and again until I lost count, and nearly lost consciousness. I used to like that song, but its inexplicable looping made me think this was a tiny glimpse of what martial law torture would feel like: a steady drip, drip, drip slowly eroding your sanity.
As Imelda started, we perked up to see glimpses of familiar scenes, then the sight of Mrs. Marcos explaining herself. Explaining herself is not really a daily occupation for Imelda; she merely needs to show up in public, and the aura simply spreads. But she agreed to talk openly about herself for Ramona Diaz’s film crew, and the results are never short of fascinating.
Most of the stories – the whirlwind courtship of Imelda and Ferdinand, Meldy’s "breakdown," her attempted assassination – are told in James Hamilton-Paterson’s equally fascinating America’s Boy. But it’s different to hear Imelda tell them herself. And the friends and confidantes assembled for the film provide a neat Greek-chorus effect. Did Marcos have mistresses? No, according to one Imelda confidante: "There were good times, but no mistresses."
After her infamous breakdown when Ferdinand was still senator, what made her return to the fold? Was it simply Marcos’ offer to quit politics, as Imelda remembers? Or was it discovering sacks of cash hidden in their bedroom that turned the tide, as Paterson’s book recounts? Again, truth can never be ugly for Imelda. She goes where the cosmic circles lead her.
On the imposition of martial law, Imelda claims her husband abolished both houses of Congress simply because he "cherished" democracy so much – something along the lines of "we had to destroy democracy in order to save it." It’s doublespeak of a high order.
One fascinating bit of news footage involves a crazed attacker who swung a bolo at the first lady during a public appearance in late 1972. She suffered 11 cuts and slashes before the attacker was subdued (Diaz never gives background on this incident, unfortunately). Her reaction upon seeing a machete wheeling her way? "I thought, I would hate to die from such an ugly thing. Why couldn’t it have yellow ribbons tied to it, or something?"
The concept of beauty surfaces again and again. A former beauty queen who persuaded a mayor to overturn the results when she came in second in one contest, Imelda was, and is, keenly aware of the burden her public image represents. "Beauty is a discipline," she explains in one tutorial for the cameras. She points out that, when meeting international leaders, it takes her one hour to get ready; when meeting the Filipino public, though, "it takes one and a half, two hours. Twice as long."
Since the Marcos presidency was founded on an image of youth, vigor and beauty (not unlike JFK’s Camelot), it was necessary for Imelda to be a sort of ambassador of glamour, always leading the way in negotiations with people like Libya’s Ghaddafi and Iraq’s Saddam Hussein. She rubbed shoulders with top political heads, and the strategy worked beautifully: if she succeeded in charming them, Marcos won; if she made a mistake, Marcos could always disavow Imelda’s back-channel efforts as "lady talk."
She may have taken the role of bringing art and culture to Filipinos seriously, but Imelda appears to have little time to cloud her mind with misery and poverty. "Whenever I see garbage or trash, I am somehow able to just… skip it." Words Barbara Bush could no doubt embrace.
In case one thinks Meldy is simply callous, she labors to explain her all-encompassing theories on beauty. She does this with a sketchpad and a Pentel pen, and it’s easily the most hilarious, mind-boggling scene in the movie. Wielding the marker, she outlines her "7 Portals of Life" (which, inexplicably, ends on 10) in increasingly bizarre, overlapping diagrams that make you wonder how she remembers such nonsense. But this is, apparently, how Imelda’s mind works. If everything is connected, and she thinks she can only send out beauty into the world, then how can she ever be wrong? Ah, to be at peace with the world and in possession of a beautiful mind! It makes the journey through life so much easier.
Imelda is full of images that conjure up the good times, the bad times and the kitschy times of the Marcos era. Yes, there’s perpetually-tanned actor George Hamilton, a Palace fixture, belting out a tune to his favorite first lady. There’s Meldy disco dancing with Adnan Kashoggi in her Manhattan apartment, embracing Henry Kissinger, smiling with Nancy and Ron. The lady definitely lived the life, there’s no doubt about that.
To be fair, director Diaz has lined up folks on either side of the Imelda question to tell their tales: she has life-long friends, and even a Manhattan juror who seems elaborately pleased to be in possession of a framed, autographed photo of Mrs. Marcos (he voted to acquit her in the Manhattan trial). On the other side are critics such as Father Reuter, various Filipino and American journalists, and alleged victims of human rights abuses under the Marcos regime.
So who’s the tiebreaker in this documentary? Imelda herself. Her efforts to clear up the somewhat murky ethical waters are either entertaining and plucky, or shockingly disingenuous, depending on your perspective. There are moments – when she’s explaining away her shoe fetish, for instance – that are just flat-out comical. And there are moments that are undeniably sincere and moving, such as her visit to the Marcos mausoleum in Batac.
At times, yes, Diaz swings into Michael Moore territory, speeding up Imelda’s Pentel scribbling, for instance, or intercutting drag queens with the fall of Marcos. No documentary, after all, is without a point of view. But it’s also true that the movie would be nothing without its star – in the flesh, singing her own song – and that says something about our attraction to, and ambivalence toward, celebrities. When all is said and done, beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder.
Imelda Marcos and Barbara Bush seem to have much in common, as a viewing of the Ramona S. Diaz documentary Imelda makes clear. Neither former first lady can bear the thought of unpleasantness interfering with their conception of beauty. In the case of Mrs. Bush, it was rude questions about her son’s handling of the Iraq war, which she swatted away like pesky bluebottles.
In the case of Mrs. Marcos, the effervescent star of this documentary (it is, after all, a documentary, despite what Mrs. Marcos would like to believe), beauty is love is truth is cosmic harmony, and anything that conflicts with her mythical view on such matters is really… quite irrelevant. If not actionable.
Mrs. Marcos’ efforts to restrain the showing of Imelda on her home turf appear to have backfired: the premiere audience I was with spilled over onto extra plastic chairs lining the exit lanes. Before the showing began, we were regaled by a bouncy one-hit wonder from the ‘70s, More Today Than Yesterday by Spiral Staircase. It played over the loudspeakers again and again until I lost count, and nearly lost consciousness. I used to like that song, but its inexplicable looping made me think this was a tiny glimpse of what martial law torture would feel like: a steady drip, drip, drip slowly eroding your sanity.
As Imelda started, we perked up to see glimpses of familiar scenes, then the sight of Mrs. Marcos explaining herself. Explaining herself is not really a daily occupation for Imelda; she merely needs to show up in public, and the aura simply spreads. But she agreed to talk openly about herself for Ramona Diaz’s film crew, and the results are never short of fascinating.
Most of the stories – the whirlwind courtship of Imelda and Ferdinand, Meldy’s "breakdown," her attempted assassination – are told in James Hamilton-Paterson’s equally fascinating America’s Boy. But it’s different to hear Imelda tell them herself. And the friends and confidantes assembled for the film provide a neat Greek-chorus effect. Did Marcos have mistresses? No, according to one Imelda confidante: "There were good times, but no mistresses."
After her infamous breakdown when Ferdinand was still senator, what made her return to the fold? Was it simply Marcos’ offer to quit politics, as Imelda remembers? Or was it discovering sacks of cash hidden in their bedroom that turned the tide, as Paterson’s book recounts? Again, truth can never be ugly for Imelda. She goes where the cosmic circles lead her.
On the imposition of martial law, Imelda claims her husband abolished both houses of Congress simply because he "cherished" democracy so much – something along the lines of "we had to destroy democracy in order to save it." It’s doublespeak of a high order.
One fascinating bit of news footage involves a crazed attacker who swung a bolo at the first lady during a public appearance in late 1972. She suffered 11 cuts and slashes before the attacker was subdued (Diaz never gives background on this incident, unfortunately). Her reaction upon seeing a machete wheeling her way? "I thought, I would hate to die from such an ugly thing. Why couldn’t it have yellow ribbons tied to it, or something?"
The concept of beauty surfaces again and again. A former beauty queen who persuaded a mayor to overturn the results when she came in second in one contest, Imelda was, and is, keenly aware of the burden her public image represents. "Beauty is a discipline," she explains in one tutorial for the cameras. She points out that, when meeting international leaders, it takes her one hour to get ready; when meeting the Filipino public, though, "it takes one and a half, two hours. Twice as long."
Since the Marcos presidency was founded on an image of youth, vigor and beauty (not unlike JFK’s Camelot), it was necessary for Imelda to be a sort of ambassador of glamour, always leading the way in negotiations with people like Libya’s Ghaddafi and Iraq’s Saddam Hussein. She rubbed shoulders with top political heads, and the strategy worked beautifully: if she succeeded in charming them, Marcos won; if she made a mistake, Marcos could always disavow Imelda’s back-channel efforts as "lady talk."
She may have taken the role of bringing art and culture to Filipinos seriously, but Imelda appears to have little time to cloud her mind with misery and poverty. "Whenever I see garbage or trash, I am somehow able to just… skip it." Words Barbara Bush could no doubt embrace.
In case one thinks Meldy is simply callous, she labors to explain her all-encompassing theories on beauty. She does this with a sketchpad and a Pentel pen, and it’s easily the most hilarious, mind-boggling scene in the movie. Wielding the marker, she outlines her "7 Portals of Life" (which, inexplicably, ends on 10) in increasingly bizarre, overlapping diagrams that make you wonder how she remembers such nonsense. But this is, apparently, how Imelda’s mind works. If everything is connected, and she thinks she can only send out beauty into the world, then how can she ever be wrong? Ah, to be at peace with the world and in possession of a beautiful mind! It makes the journey through life so much easier.
Imelda is full of images that conjure up the good times, the bad times and the kitschy times of the Marcos era. Yes, there’s perpetually-tanned actor George Hamilton, a Palace fixture, belting out a tune to his favorite first lady. There’s Meldy disco dancing with Adnan Kashoggi in her Manhattan apartment, embracing Henry Kissinger, smiling with Nancy and Ron. The lady definitely lived the life, there’s no doubt about that.
To be fair, director Diaz has lined up folks on either side of the Imelda question to tell their tales: she has life-long friends, and even a Manhattan juror who seems elaborately pleased to be in possession of a framed, autographed photo of Mrs. Marcos (he voted to acquit her in the Manhattan trial). On the other side are critics such as Father Reuter, various Filipino and American journalists, and alleged victims of human rights abuses under the Marcos regime.
So who’s the tiebreaker in this documentary? Imelda herself. Her efforts to clear up the somewhat murky ethical waters are either entertaining and plucky, or shockingly disingenuous, depending on your perspective. There are moments – when she’s explaining away her shoe fetish, for instance – that are just flat-out comical. And there are moments that are undeniably sincere and moving, such as her visit to the Marcos mausoleum in Batac.
At times, yes, Diaz swings into Michael Moore territory, speeding up Imelda’s Pentel scribbling, for instance, or intercutting drag queens with the fall of Marcos. No documentary, after all, is without a point of view. But it’s also true that the movie would be nothing without its star – in the flesh, singing her own song – and that says something about our attraction to, and ambivalence toward, celebrities. When all is said and done, beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder.
BrandSpace Articles
<
>