Michael Mirasol - The Flipcritic

What have I learned from 9/11? You can't label away the rest of the world

2011-09-10T17:58:29Z

I've always read of Americans knowing exactly where they were when JFK was killed. I realized that moment ten years ago. I was a world away in the Philippines at my first consulting position. The workday had ended, and people were checking the online news before heading home. My colleagues were telling me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I immediately thought it must have been a Cessna. But as we continued to received reports over CNN, it became clear that it was a commercial aircraft. It was horrifying to think of.

Little did I know how unspeakable it would turn into. Walking to my daily commute, my mom phoned me as she was watching reports pour in over cable. She told me that another plane had hit the second tower. People began to talk amongst themselves wondering what on earth was going on. As I was nearing home, my mom called me once more. After I hung up the phone I told my fellow passengers that the Towers had collapsed. There was only stunned silence.

Upon arriving, I turned on the TV to listen to countless replays of Peter Jennings, the most gracious and eloquent of news anchors, at a loss for words. People I knew talked about it for days. It was simply one of the saddest days I've ever known. But at that time, though unfathomably tragic for those directly affected by it, 9/11 was just a distant news item. In the days, months and years to follow, I would learn just how much it would touch those I knew and cared for. How it would affect my family both immediate and extended. And how it would shape my relationship with all things American.

Al-Qaeda brought itself into the forefront of the world's consciousness. The perpetrators were revealed to be from Saudi Arabia, and for good or bad, the anguish and pain that swirled from the tragedy had found its target. Western sentiment grew to associate this most despicable of acts to something only Muslims could perpetrate.

My mind immediately turned to my dear uncle Samir and his family in Saudi Arabia. My mother and sister wanted to reach him and find out how they were and for months we could not reach them. And in that time of uncertainty, the unthinkable happened: I began to doubt his goodness. This kind, funny and thoughtful man who had taught me to think for myself; who had been like a big brother to me; suddenly became suspect in the shadow of fear and paranoia.

Images of Arabs dancing in the streets after the attack didn't help. And I had learned later that uncle Samir's kids, who were entering adolescence at the time, had done the same. These were the little tykes I played with on Samir's summer vacations to our home. I saw them when they were mere babies. They looked up to me like a big brother. We told jokes and saw movies together. They even taught me how to ice skate. "How could they?" I thought.

But I didn't know. I didn't live their lives in the Middle East. I didn't know how my Iraqi-born uncle saw the Palestinian cause being actively campaigned against when he grew up in England. I didn't know Saddam Hussein was an American-propped dictator before he became its sworn enemy. I didn't know about the history of Western entanglement in the region. I didn't know.

I did know that there was something deadly wrong about the characterization of Muslims. When I had studied in Australia, my Asian circle was almost entirely Malaysian or Indonesian. It was the most open time of my life, and religion was hardly ever recognized. My first girlfriend Putri was Indonesian, and with her love of smoking, the Doors, and night life, she taught me not to be such a tightwad.

Al-Qaeda drove their attacks into South East Asia by funding their partners in the region. Successful and failed bombings in the Philippines, Indonesia, and Singapore seem to galvanize the idea that Muslims were no good. Filipinos were already at war with the Moro Islamic Liberation Front under dubious circumstances. In the shadow of 9/11 and under our gloriously stupid and corrupt ex-President Erap, it continued unnecessarily.

It made me wonder if Dubya had been taking notes. I was able to grudgingly accept America's decision to invade Afghanistan. where Bin Laden was hiding out with the Taliban, a group that had terrorized the country for more than a decade. That first US invasion was swift and successful, or so it seemed until the guerilla warfare had started, along with those pictures of torture.

I thought nothing in my lifetime could trump the evil of 9/11, but what Bush Jr. did with Iraq was equally despicable. The lies about ties with Bin Laden and supposed WMD were as clear as day, and yet it was sold and agreed upon even by the supposedly most enlightened minds of the time. It was the first time I was truly angry at America, so much so that for a month or so I refused to buy anything made in the USA. That obviously didn't last long.

If I was angry at the US, can you imagine how Samir's family felt? His sisters, aunts and uncles were still in Iraq. And from our most recent conversations, he has told me there is NOTHING in the media that can show you how devastated the country was in the last decade. Because of the Iraq War a travel ban has placed on Iraq to several Middle Eastern states, so no Iraqi to this day can travel freely to Saudi Arabia among other places. Samir, a British national on paper, desperately tried to get his family members (my family members) safely into Saudi Arabia and find work, without success.

In 2005, I decided to try my luck finding work in Malaysia. My uncle Raul and his family had lived their briefly, and said it was beautiful and orderly place. But I knew nothing of the country, and my mom and mother-in-law could only wonder, is it safe? Are they strict like in the Middle East?

They're anything but. In so many ways, they're just like the Philippines, except that most people go to Mosques instead of Churches. Many Filipinos have forgotten how richly Islam very much defined Philippine culture before the Spanish came. Malaysia is an alternate reality of the Philippines reflecting an even truer Asian identity than we've ever known. But that gets lost in the Pinoy love for all things Western.

A few years later I would be forced to go to Saudi Arabia to find work. It has been the most extreme place I have ever been in. Many things I read were true, but people don't go out on streets everyday chanting "Death to America!" as the American news media would have you believe. They understandably have their misgivings due to history, but like anybody else around the world, they want to live their lives and support their families. They aren't single entities out to destroy the U.S. of A. Such labelings remind me of the wartime propaganda, like Disney cartoons portraying Nazis or schools teaching about Commies coming to invade.

And what of my Saudi cousins who I grew up watching over? They all had finished or were finishing college in Dubai while I was in their vicinity. All of them just like any young lad or lass fresh out of school with a degree: vibrant, forward-looking, hopeful for the future, in love with pop-culture and gadgets, thinking about falling in love. I never asked them why they danced when they did, but I knew them well enough to know that they were 9 years younger and didn't know any better. They are fortunate to have seen the world and have known foreign cultures. Much more than most Americans I know.

I have another cousin named Sunny Mae who grew up in America. When I first met her in the 90s, I had a crush on her. She visited the Philippines a few years ago to reconnect with her roots. The lovely young lady I had known then had become a tough grunt who joined the military and served in Afghanistan. Imagine that. I had family on both sides of the 9/11 aftermath. She told us stories of her stint there, where she served in a nation-building capacity. She helped build schools and restore order, and described scenes of humanity in what can only be described as a literal wasteland. She would go back to the North Carolina to try and build a career as a teacher. Seeing her again made me realized that I too could not generalize about America as a single entity. There's still a goodness that only they have the capability to provide, though it gets drowned in a sea of hopelessness.

What I have learned about 9/11 is that nothing is absolute, the future is unknowable, evil has many faces, but so does goodness. But most of all, there are no labels that can stick to people. Just recently I was labelled a "big-time Liberal" by one friend, and a "poster-boy for the Right Wing Nut Jobs" by another. I'd never been called something like that in my life, having been raised in a country where political leanings are irrelevant. On my last visit to Saudi Arabia, people greatly respected Obama (Samir included) because as a US President he finally greeted them, "As-Salamu Alaykum." Saudis would laugh if you asked them if he was a Muslim.

My hope is that America will grow to learn more about the world around it. Of all the things that is bringing about its decline, it is its parochialism. The US feels that is the center of the world, and in many ways it is, but the rest of the world has caught up, and it demands the same kind of consideration it has given America. This piece is not about who is to blame, there's been enough of that. It's about how we're connected and not separate. You can't label away the rest of the world. We feel more than ever what America calls us.

Would you label my uncle Samir a terrorist? Would you label my cousin Sunny Mae a killer of Muslims? Would you label me as someone on the Left or the Right?

It's not that simple. It never is.

Star-Crossed Cowboys: BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN

2011-06-30T19:11:14Z

Note: This is a reprint of my piece for Uno Magazine last February for Valentine season. In light of New York's recent recognition of same-sex marriages, I thought it would be good to revisit Ang Lee's 2005 masterpiece.

I hope you enjoy the video essay as much as I had fun making it.

What's the last great love story you've seen on film? I don't mean your typical "rom-coms" with contrived meet-cutes that rely heavily on celebrity star power. I'm talking about a genuine romance between two richly defined characters. If your mind draws a blank, you're not alone. Hollywood, along with much of the filmmaking world, seems to have either forgotten how to portray love affairs in ways that once made us swoon. Whatever the reason, be it due to our changing times or priorities, we might not see any significant ones for some time.

If there is any love story of this kind worth revisiting, it is Ang Lee's BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN, which just might be the most moving tale of star-crossed lovers for the past decade.

Not many people will remember the film this way, as its two lovers were hardly the kind seen before in major movie romances. Indeed, a story of two cowboys discovering a deep love for each other was bound to cause controversy. Who would dare take on such a subject? Were its motives exploitative? Political? A gimmick? Add in Ang Lee, the celebrated Taiwanese-born director known for ushering the new age of Sino-Cinema to Hollywood, and expectations could not possibly grow further.

But grow they did. Once the film won the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, a prestige not taken lightly in film circles, interest surged. Countless raves and recognitions seem to follow, which should have been reassuring to the thoughtful moviegoer. But to many who still hadn't seen it, one could only wonder: Could a gay cowboy movie really be that good?

I remember seeing it for the first time in the UK, its audience awash in expectation. The crowd wasn't crackling with energy, but a feeling of hopeful delight was abundant, with smiles all around. I recall a trio of fellows in front of me good-naturedly ribbing each other once the lights went out.

As the film started, the tension was palpable. From all the press the movie garnered, people were dead silent. Once the two characters had their first moment of eye contact, though devoid of any real meaning, I could hear the slightest gasps among ladies in the audience. It's as if people were actively looking for that wanton look. But really for the first 30 minutes or so, it never came.

And that's what first impressed me. We don't catch them catching glances or meandering in awkward or clichéd moments of artificiality. We witness the intense rigors of ranching, braving storms, snow, and sheep. We experience the gorgeous but treacherous backdrop, which they toil with and against. We see them do their work and do it very well. Whether Ang Lee knew his subject was provocative or not, he soothes us into it. That's when I realized I didn't care so much whether they were attracted to each other. I cared about THEM.

And why do we care? Because of Ang Lee's clear commitment to strip his film's characters and story of any affectations. Of all his films, this is the one where his protagonists and events are laid bare. And due to the absence of any theatrics or stylistic gesturing, the film is able to retain a strong sense of authenticity, of deeply rooted human connection. Nothing here is pointed out or glossed over. The miracle and tragedy of Jack and Ennis' circumstance speak volumes.

Much has been made of how uncomfortable the film has made certain audiences, particularly heterosexual males, and that is understandable. But if it is any solace, the physical intimacy displayed here, like the movie itself, is never gratuitous. Their first night together plays out in a way most men might feel after a night when there's been too much to drink, and too much time without a woman. A mistake.

But their second tryst is a revelation, both to them and to us. Any mistake brings shame, and yet they both show an unmistakable longing for each other. If that moment was an eye-opener, their re-uniting after several years of being apart brings an undeniable sense of release. Reader, I was happy beyond belief when they were once again in each other's arms.

How did Ang Lee pull it off? For one thing, he was able to cast two of the most remarkable young actors at the time, known for their excellent work, and relatively untouched by the baggage of fame. With Jake Gyllenhaal and the late Heath Ledger, they helped create the two most memorable star-crossed lovers of all time.

We all know how Heath Ledger's role as Ennis Del Mar secured him a place in the pantheon of great screen performances, one so unique it caused Daniel Day-Lewis to honor it as "perfect." Here, he is a clenched fist, so coiled-up that words struggle to leave his lips. It is his damaged past, the "ghost in the room" as Roger Ebert described it, which damages any chance of living happily with his love. But he conveys with equal clarity, a fragile tenderness.

But we shouldn't overlook Jake Gyllenhaal as Jack Twist, the stronger of the two. It is he who is willing to sacrifice more for their happiness, imparting a sensitivity and forgiveness that any partner would want in a soul mate. His suffering may not be as deep as Ennis's, but it's just as painful.

Another factor that gives the film its beauty is its stunning scenery. Spanish cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto gives us the clearest and widest blue skies one could ever want and a glorious mountainous backdrop of flora and fauna that National Geographic would die for. There are vistas of sheep moving along the mountainside, looking like the lifeblood of nature's veins. Brokeback Mountain comes to symbolize love itself: A refuge from reality's cruelty.

Pair this imagery with Gustavo Santaolalla's guitar score, and you have the makings of an emotional reservoir. His twangs are spare, but with the movie, they are nothing short of sublime. You can almost listen to his notes echo through the mountainside. I didn't realize how affected I was until the day after. I purchased the soundtrack, and in the shower while listening to "The Wings," remembering Jack and Ennis, I wept.

Truth be told, Ang Lee is no stranger to stories of the heart. When you think about it, he's made them before. "Sense and Sensibility" and "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon" contain heartbreaking moments of love realized and unrequited. Try to listen to Li Mu Bai's final words to Yu Shi Lien and not be moved to tears.

If there is any common theme running through his films, it is a patience and willingness to understand characters struggling with their contextual norms. He weaves careful and affectionate portraits of misunderstood people, dealing with what is expected of them. Once asked in an interview whether a gay director would have been better suited to direct the film he replied, "I don't think it's important that you're gay. I think it's important that you're sensitive." That he has always been.

There will always be people who will no doubt criticize "Brokeback Mountain" as having a homosexual agenda, forever labeling it "the gay cowboy movie." But they're missing the point. It cares much less about promoting gay rights than about telling the sad tale of two people who have discovered each other, that they're not alone, and that they can't live without each other. They just happen to be men. If that isn't star-crossed, I don't know what is.

Though the film isn't a weepy, its final scene packs an emotional wallop that sums up how tragic it all ended. A dresser with two shirts: one Ennis's, the other Jack's; one embracing the other. A picture of the mountain: their haven and prison. No mountain out the window. A closet closed.

It gets me every time.

Being a jackass behind the wheel

2011-06-23T10:06:37Z

A lot of people who know me of late know about the car crash I endured just over a year ago in Saudi Arabia. A bus driver hit the car I was in full force at an intersection while neglecting to slow down or even notice the "Stop" sign where he should have yielded. I suffered some cuts and bruises. My friend Ed who was driving got it a bit worse. My friend Lito who was sitting in the back suffered grave injuries. He didn't make it later that day. It was a fate that I wouldn't wish on anybody.

Only my family knows of the time when I was irresponsible driver. Nearly every young adult male has probably gone through this stage, getting behind the wheel full of excitement and testosterone. It's only reinforced by culture and marketing, bombarded with insinuations that you're more of a man when you go faster.

I was definitely one of those guys; treating Manila highways as racetracks; familiarizing myself with every exit, stretch, and turn to take any advantage of getting ahead while on the way to school, work, or home. I've felt the exhilaration getting "there" first, of weaving through traffic, of near-misses and risky maneuvers.

There was one evening I was speeding down a long two-way road with my 50-year old uncle beside me. We treated each other as buds back then, and he was too kind to let me have it if I was misbehaving. I was overtaking slower cars every so often. Then as three cars in front of me were in my way, I boldly tried to pass them all. And as I shifted to the opposite lane, a cement truck was coming towards me.

Knowing my speed and how much road I had left, I knew I could make it, but I also knew that there would be room for no error, as cars who were following behind me had closed the gap I had left. I swerved ahead of those three cars just at the right moment, and though I had a wide grin on my face, my uncle was dead silent the rest of the way. I didn't need to look at his face to know what he was thinking.

But the rest of the way home, I could only think of one thing. I was lucky to be alive. Every other time I had remembered that night, I kept on recoiling at that near-miss moment. "What the hell were you thinking? I'll never do that again!" Or so I thought.

A few years later, I was coming home from a friend's birthday bash. Though I wasn't drinking, my mind was pumped up with the verve of electronica blasting in the car. I was driving a 1994 Honda Civic, the kind of you see among rice rockets frequently pimped on the streets of LA. But it wasn't my car. It wasn't customized or juiced in any way. But o did my juvenile imagination shine through. I thought I was the king of the road.

A blue Mistubishi "Adventure" came up from behind, and off us idiots went weaving through the bright-lit highway. As I was behind him crossing underneath a bridge, I decided to make my move, changing lanes to overtake on the slower lane, and once again I found myself about to hit another oncoming object, this time being a slower car. I hit the breaks, but my tires couldn't take control, and so I spun.

That was the first time in a vehicle when I felt everything slow down, just like that moment in Saudi Arabia where I saw that bus about to hit us from the driver side. As the car spun, I thought, "Brace yourself!" I didn't know whether I was going to hit another car, or be slammed from the back.

I hit a guardrail, and spun a bit faster, but soon came to a halt. I was in shock, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. The front tire on the right was smashed, and so went my steering. Cars slowed down behind me as I made my way to the side of the road.

My brain shouted, "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! What if I got hit? What if I hit someone else?" I was shaken. My heart-pounding. I called Claire, who was then my girlfriend and soon my mom to tell them I was ok.

I never drove with much bravado after that. Partly because my confidence was shattered, and mostly because my perspective had changed. It was a few years after my dad had passed away. We didn't have much, and now I had wrecked my mom's way of getting around. My mom was grateful nothing happened to me, but later on she joked, "Next time you want to speed, wreck your own car."

Usually with age comes wisdom. I never saw roads as racetracks ever again. And by the time I owned my own car, I had a daughter to take care of, so now I drive like an old lady, and am happy to do so.

One of the first people who wished me well after my car crash in Saudi Arabia was Roger Ebert. I've been fortunate to know him as a friend. And as one, I can say that there isn't a malicious bone in his body. When he tweeted, "Friends don't let jackasses drink and drive." he was exactly right. Yes it may have been too soon, and of course it hurt Ryan's friends and family. But the truth is, it would be a lot more irresponsible letting Ryan's behavior slide that night, and Roger pointed that out. In many ways, I was in the same position he was. And I'd gladly stop anyone from repeating my gloriously moronic mistakes.

Ryan Dunn did some obscene things as a stuntman on his show, but of course that does not define him as a bad person, any more than my past dangerous driving shenanigans define me. But as someone who nearly got killed behind the wheel and in front of it, I can say this: If I had irresponsibly caused someone else's death, and my own, I deserve to be called a jackass. But I beg you, never let it get that far.

Ebertfest 2011: Day 3

2011-04-30T07:16:22Z

Note: This entry will be edited later on to include pictures (I hope).

"Black Dog" is a BAD mutha

I awoke this morning with 5 hours of slumber. Not bad compared to the previous day. My attempts to write at 2am earlier today were met with stiff resistance from my sleep-deprived stupor. I had hastily arranged the day before to have lunch at a BBQ joint unanimously raved by our local collegiate hosts: "Black Dog Smoke and Ale House." O I love Steak N' Shake, but one can only take so much of repitition, so it was time to explore.

I tweeted several Ebertfest tweeps to join me for lunch as I was going to try it no matter what. Replies were sketchy due to the great time we spent at Bentley's the night before (and in the wee morn). A friend had told me that many of the participants at today's first panel discussion, were beset with eyebags and hoarse throats. Two journalists still had to cover the Royal Wedding at 3am. One of them didn't sleep.

As I proceeded to the pick up point a little before noon, Spencer Turkin informed me that Kenji Fujishima would be joining me. But soon enough we spotted Matt Zoller Seitz who we invited to join in. And thankfully we also spotted Kevin Lee waiting outside with Grace Wang. Apparently she had received my tweet just in time. Spencer's car was again not equipped to deal with my unplanned invitation, but he was nice enough to sit in the trunk of his 4x4 after knowing that Matt and I had already taken turns doing so for the past two days. His friend Bryce Jakobs did the driving.

It was a small joint with only a park bench right out in front on the sidewalk. But it was packed, even though we had arrived early to get seats. We had no choice but to sit outside, but the day was glorious, with the sun counteracting somewhat chilly winds. You could have called it a street picnic. The menu had a quite a variety and the service was brisk. Three of us ordered tacos, two had "burnt ends" (crisp beef bisket slabs in a sandwich), while I ordered the beef brisket.

Once the meals were all delivered, Matt Zoller Seitz commented first, or more accurately, loudly exclaimed: "Oh my God!" It was a favorable review to say the least, as those words would be repeated by nearly everyone at the table who tried these dishes for the first time. And they were roundly succeeded by the next four words: "This is SO GOOD!" I reached into my pocket to photograph these culinary marvels, only to my immense disappointment. I had forgotten my camera, which now answers why you dear reader are not seeing any pics. That'll be corrected later on today (I hope).

We thanked Spencer and Bryce for the recommendation and for helping to choose what to order, and off to Virginia theater we went, joking around how we would all be asleep in the theater because of how we stuffed ourselves. We took our seats for the day's first screening of "45365," a documentary focusing on the city of Sidney, Ohio, which resides on the zip code indicated by its title.

45365

The film was a stream of human moments, a collection of 500 hours of footage taken around Sidney during an entire year. Though it proceeds without a narrative arc, it contains scattered clips of multiple characters whose lives become clearer, more touching, and somewhat more universal in the film's progression. It starts out disjointed; almost scattershot, but you eventually sink in, identifying patterns in its multitudes, reflecting, "Yeah, life is really like that."

There are so many "travel" documentaries where a destination is highlighted by its "best" or most popular attractions, where we are told where we must go, what the people are like, or how the setting should be assessed. But "45365" never tells us what Sidney, Ohio is like, what we should think of its people, what makes it worth living in, or how popular it is. With its five "chapters" (each symbolized by a title's numbers), it merely watches, implanting itself into places and people's lives. It is more honest, more human, and more truthful than so many of its contemporaries. If you want to know what a true destination and its people are like, you should ask the film's directors, Bill and Turner Ross, to make a film about it.

Speaking of the two, their Q&A was one of the more interesting and lively of the festival. Both young men who seem to be truly devoted to their love of filmmaking than the profit that can be made from it, they noted how the festival was the largest reception they've had for the film, and the most intellectual give and take they've with an audience. The film currently has no distribution whatsoever and is described as essentially, "a black market movie." That's criminal. Whoever is reading this, please help them out if you can.

Me And Orson Welles

The night's next offering was the highlight of the evening; a movie that astonishingly brings back one of film's supreme figures: Richard Linklater's "Me And Orson Welles." The audience was packed with anticipation, especially to be in the same room with a great director such as Mr. Linklater. It tells the semi-fictional story of Orson Welles's legendary theatrical production of "Julius Ceasar," told through the eyes of actor Arthur Andersen, portrayed by Zac Efron.

The film is noted for a performance by Christian McKay, who plays the title character. His performance is so astonishing, so uncanny, that it feels as if Welles himself had risen from the dead. Welles famous diction, inflections, mannerisms, and bombast comes back to life. To even call it performance or an impersonation diminishes how wondrous it is. I could only describe it as a resurrection.

The movie itself is an embarrassment of riches. Its production design is exquisite. Its first rate cast gives no weakness. Its music evokes the classic American songbook. Its screenplay is witty and oh so smart. And its story aside from being one of the most insightful looks at a life in the theater, is also very very funny.

Its cast is populated with some of the best British theater actors working today, reflecting how much respect is given to the film's central play. The American actress Claire Danes emits a presence of quality and class whenever she is on screen. But what I also found quite notable was the revelation of Zac Efron as more than just a teenage star. He holds his own amongst the film's best performances, holding our attention, serving as our witness to the greatness of McKay's Welles. His noted physicality and grace adds a dimension to his representation of the confidence and innocence of youth. His character has the gusto and desire to be part of the arts, and the contrasting touching hesitation in the face of making and finding love for perhaps the first time. I hope we get to see more roles like this for Mr. Efron. He has the promise of a young unaffected Tom Cruise.

Richard Linklater's Q&A was the most sought after of the night, and he was very game and enthusiastic to participate (which seems to be on par for every filmmaker who has done so during Ebertfest). Not only did he answer questions, but he shot them out at the audience too in the form of the movie's trivia. Correct answers were rewarded with the movie's posters and soundtrack.

A Dinner Intermission and Rest

As the film's Q&A died down, the remaining audience started congregating near the stage for autographs with the director. We FFC members proceeded to have dinner, where I finally met with Claire as she spent most of the day going shopping with Krishna Shenoi's mom and sister. I told her she missed two wonderful films, but I don't blame her. The days can be grueling asking to hold our attentions in a cold theater for half a day. Many of us writing behind the scenes were starting to feel the effects of going on mostly adrenaline (some of us still working to cover the festival itself). Matt Zoller Seitz, who had left that afternoon, hadn't slept from the evening before, working to meet deadlines I'm sure many of the guests have.

After finishing dinner, we returned to the theater where I spotted Roger and asked him how he was doing since he himself had loyally attended every single entry so far. He nodded to me that he was fine, and to my surprise, he introduced me to Richard Linklater who was sitting next to him. I was unprepared, starstruck, and fumbling with my words. But I did tell him what great work he does. I was thankful for the moment.

Only You

The last entry of the night was Norman Jewison's "Only You," a film which both Roger and the director hold dear to their hearts. It tells the love story of two people who believe in romantic fate in different ways. Compared to many of the films at the festival, it was light and easy fare. I had seen the film before when I was in high school and enjoyed it quite a bit watching through more innocent eyes. But I admit as I started the film through its first 20 minutes, that I was becoming discouraged.

It felt overly manipulative and quite maudlin as it started. But because of the film's extremely charming characters, particularly Marissa Tomei and Bonnie Hunt, they hold our affection. And by the time Robert Downey Jr. enters the story as Ms. Tomei's polar attraction, all is forgiven. It also helps when you have the stunning presence of Italy, with its Venetian waterways, Tuscan Siena vistas, and Coastal mountainside of Positano. It's a European traveler's wet dream.

I was surprised how film was still able to win me over despite the passage of time. I was enthralled with the film's quiet strength in the belief of its themes. It sticks to its premise and bravely delivers. The earliest of film romances were never afraid to do so. This throwback won me back.

The film's Q&A took a while to begin, but that's because Roger himself wanted to present his dear friend Mr. Jewison to the audience himself. I was also very happy that my fellow FFC member and friend Olivia Collette got the chance to participate on the panel alongside one of her heroes. She never thought she'd get to do it when Ebertfest began, but when Chaz found out, she let her have her moment. Thank you Roger and Chaz!

The Day's End

The panel ended and we all proceeded to Mid-Fest party held on Green Street near our hotel. Many of the festival prized guests, including Richard Linklater and the Ross brothers Bill and Turner. I myself was too pooped to stay long. But I dropped by to say high and grab a bite just to keep myself going. It was a nice night with friends new and old. Krishna got to meet Mr. Linklater who is one of his favorite directors.

Going back to the hotel, my new friend Pablo Villaca mentioned to me how he wish it didn't end. I had a wide smile not because it was funny, but because it was true. I felt exactly the same way the same time last year. Those new to this were beginning to have these same thoughts dawn on them.

I told him how I felt for him while he told me there's always next year. If I could come back every year, I would.

Ebertfest 2011: Day 2

2011-04-29T07:42:37Z

After 3 hours of sleep, we headed to the day's "Meet N' Greet" (lots of "N's" over here), where the Roger Ebert's Far Flung Correspondents, his "Ebert Presents" members, and his Ebert Club members could gather for some warm chit-chat to start the day. We don't get a lot of free time once the day's events start going, and Day 2 was definitely a busy one.

It was a family reunion of sorts. I was so happy to see all the familiar faces from last year, as well as new friends this year. With breakfast nearby, Roger asked every attendee to introduce themselves. I spent time with Randy Masters and Tom Dark, two Tweeps whom I come to disagree with sometimes heatedly over politics. But in person, they are very kind souls. Being with them reminded me, how being faceless on the web can be dehumanizing. I'll never let that get in the way of our friendship again.

It was also great to finally meet the movie minds of Roger's show "Ebert Presents." When I found out that Ignaty Vishnevetsky landed the job a few months ago, I felt immensely happy for him, and I was glad to get the chance to share that with him. Yes he's quite tall, and must get tired of all the height comparisons with his cohost Christy Lemire. But he's quite ethusiastic, fun to speak with, and witty. We need more young critics like him.

As many of us were lining up to meet with "the man," I spent some time with Krishna Shenoi and his family. Most of us following the festival know that he is the youngest of Roger's Far Flung Correspondents. What I didn't know and had found out about a day ago is that his father had recently passed away earlier this year. His mother had told my wife that she was doing this for him; for his happiness. There's absolutely no question that while here, he's in bliss.

The love circle was ending, and it was off to one the first panels of the day: "Far Flung Correspondents: International Perspectives in Film Criticism." It was moderated by my dear friend and fellow FFC Omer Mozaffar who made the time despite his crazy/hectic teaching schedule. His expertise wasn't in doubt, he was in his element, and he was knocking his punch lines out of the park. If you're reading this Roger, Omer should be a permanent fixture in Ebertfest.

If you're reading this Omer, I'm not trying to bury you with more tasks. :)

Every member was given time to speak and share, as we discussed the perspectives of our film communites in our home/root countries, and the our interconnectedness in today's internet age. Pablo Villaca spoke for Brazil, Ali Arikan for Turkey, myself for the Philippines and a bit of Malaysia, Krishna for Dubai and India, Gerry for Mexico, Olivia Collette for Montreal and much of Quebec, and Anath White for Southern California. We answered a few questions from the audience, which was rapt in attention (thanks to Omer mostly).

Though we enjoyed the panel, Pablo spoke to me about something gnawed at him, which was what I had felt for some time as well. The audience was packed, but it contained hardly any students (kind of shocking being held on University grounds). The younger generation is becoming more and more uninterested in the serious assessment of film today, and it showed. We both plan to talk more about in the next few days, hopefully toss some ideas that might draw more youth into the festivities for the succeeding years. It's something my host Spencer Turkin has been trying to address, as evidenced by his help in organizing the screening of "American Movie" a few days ago. If you have any ideas/suggestions to help out, please comment below or at Roger's blog, or at the Ebertfest website.

Now it was off for lunch. Once our host Jake picked my wife and I at the entrance, he also told us that Ali, Kevin Lee of Doc Films, and Matt Zoller Seitz would coming along. We were already seated inside, and when the rest of the group came, I realized to late that someone would have to sit in the trunk just as I did the day before. Before I could volunteer, Matt hopped in the caboose. Being a fellow trunkster, I introduced myself and chatted away with him. He was more than game and quite gracious as we talked about the comparisons between writing film critique in the US and in South East Asia. Not quite the scenario I imagined when talking with one of the best critics out there, but it was kind of splendid.

We gathered in our usual spots at the Virginia theater (which is neat since you don't have to worry about your seat taken), and soon enough Iggy was introducing the audience to "Umberto D," one of the essantial Italian Neo-realist films. He could barely contain his enthusiasm in trying to prepare the audience. I had seen the film previously so I admit to dozing off several times due to lack of sleep. But don't let that deter you from seeing. Contemporary audiences may find it slow, but it's a film that completely requires empathy. It has an exactness and deliberate style that sometimes gets missed due to its straightforward documentary-like approach in telling its story. But look closely and you'll see a film that was crafted with great craft and precision. And hell, it has a dog that no one can resist.

The film's Q&A had an inspired panel member selection. It featured Paul Fierlinger, the famed animated filmmaker behind "My Dog Tulip," another great movie involving a dog. The panel was highlighted by a debate (mainly between Ali and Paul) whether the film's setting was during World War 2 or its postwar period (regardless whether it was made in the 1950s). Ali made the final convincing arguments in the end, which would result in inside jokes extending to later screenings that night, and I suspect long into today's as well.

The next screening was the film I just mentioned: "My Dog Tulip" an animated memoir inspired by the book of the same name written by J. R. Ackerly. Directed by husband and wife animated team of Paul and Sandra Fierlinger, it depicts a colorful, thoughtful and surprisingly poignant document on a man's relationship with his dog. If any, it might be THE dog lover movie. With its rough sketches and pastels, it feels like a loving sketchbook exploding into life. I wouldn't mind calling it the best animated film of last year.

If we were grading which Q&A panel was the best at this year's festival, this one with Paul and Sandra was clearly the best, as he gave his thoughts about his films, recalled his hilarious first meetings with Christopher Plumber (who narrates the film from start to finish), or from his experiences with his own dogs throughout his life. Some people might think it was too much information. Sure, but they were great stories.

Off to dinner right before the last screening, and it was here that I got to know Russell, Olivia's "husband unit," a lot better. He's a fun chap in every sense of the word. He's British without any of the pretense, and like Olivia, he's kind of a joy to talk to. I also became closer with Pablo, especially when I discovered our common passion for the work of Satoshi Kon. He is remarkably intelligent and passionate when it comes to films, and knows how to make you laugh quite well. This was a great moment with new friends.

Back to the Virginia we went. And just when I thought we wouldn't be surprised anymore, we were. Chaz told us that all of the Far Flung Correspondents, as well as the staff of "Ebert Presents" would be introduced upon our return, and introduce us she did. It was nice seeing the newbies experience for the first time. It's funny how that stage has become a "familiar place" though it's probably the only stage I'll know about for some time.

The last screening of the night, which was "Tiny Furniture," a much talked about indie film ever since its screening at the South By Southwest Film Festival. For all of the positive buzz it seems to be receiving, I couldn't help but dislike it intensely. Oh I did recognize its merits: its rich and genuine characters, it authentic feel with its New Yorker milieu, its newly college graduate sensibilities and filmmaking style which is precise and well framed.

But it was boring. Deadly boring. It's characters are aimless, which is rightly so because the film is exactly about the aimless state many young people feel at a certain point in there lives. As one coming from my background in South East Asia, the entire exercise feels like a pointless churning out of trivial "White People Problems." It is a very American, very indie, and on that level it can be admired. It feels entirely authentic and is carefully constructed, especially in its final scene. But for me, it's characters and methods are too effective in making me feel how repulsive such shallowness is, regardless of its truth. I suspect that for many non-Americans it will be viewed as trite.

The screenings were at last over, but the night was not. Olivia made the fantastic suggestion of going out to a karaoke bar, as she and Russell spotted one the day before. Word soon spread, and soon enough, almost every Ebertfest guest was at Bentley's.

Everyone had their humiliating and humorous moments. Robbie Pickering, the director of "Natural Selection" can rap like there is no tomorrow. Spencer and his friends kept the vibe bouncing through each performances. Ali's went "Footloose." And even Chaz got into the act with "Rapper's Delight." More unforgettable moments. I pray there'll be more to come.

Ebertfest 2011: Day 1

2011-04-28T06:57:56Z

The day began somewhat cloudy as Claire and I decided to go for a walk before meeting up for lunch with Ali Arikan, Kenji Fujishima, our host Jake, and Mrs. & Mr. Valero. Ali being of prodigious apetite set the date clearly longing for some Steak N' Shake, asking us to swear to two double steakburgers when the time came. He nearly got me to go for it, but I would settle for just one "Royale" with a junior milkshake later on. Have you seen how big the "regular" shakes ones are? They tower on the table daring you to finish them. I quiver at the thought of the "large" one.

I used to worry about what to talk about once we would meet up at the pickup point. My concerns were soon deflated. As soon as we entered Jake's 4x4 we chatted away like there was no tomorrow. I sat in the trunk voluntarily by the way. But it was still more roomy and comfortable than economy class on my United Airlines flight.

I was telling my host Jake about one of my last experiences at an Ebertfest Steak N' Shake, when we were staked out by the local news crew after Roger Ebert tweeted where we would have lunch. And guess what happened the moment all of us had entered the premises? A camera man brought in his gear. Once I saw the tripod, I quickly uttered, "This has to be a joke." I can find no evidence that he was behind this, but I'm watching you Rog (two-finger point)!

We had a blast. The reporter wanted to interview those Far Flung Correspondents who had been at last year's festival. So Gerry went first, Ali second, and me last. Gerry and I had the exact same reaction when Monica asked us what it was like: "Awkward." But of course, you know who handles it like a pro. -->

We got to know our host Jake and fellow tweep Kenji a whole lot better. They're both down-to-earth chaps who are here for the first time. Jake's got two weeks left to graduate while Kenji is helping cover Ebertfest for the Wall Street Journal. It goes without saying that they're very much welcome (as long as they foot the bill next time). ;)

We all returned to our quarters to rest up for an hour or so before heading to the Opening Gala, which is held annually at the University President's House. And it was there at last we all got to meet the new blood so to speak. Kartina Richardson stood out, looking to be the most fashionable among us correspondents, other than myself (groan). Pablo Villaca, one of Brazil's most esteemed film critics, made his appearance. The ever fun Olivia Collette arrived with her "husband unit" from Montreal. And most notably Krishna Shenoi arrived with his mom and sis from Dubai, looking amazed and humbled by it all, which is understandable since he is the youngest of our lot at 17 (sorry Wael!). Earlier in the day, Krishna went to see the curriculum that the University was handling, perhaps being nudged by Roger to come study here. Whatever his decision is, you can see his mom's pride beaming.

It was great seeing the old familiar faces who decided to come back once more. Aaron and Troylene Ladner had come back once more from New Jersey. The ever mellow (offline anyway) Tom Dark was warm as ever, as I was genuinely glad to speak with him again (more on that at a later date). Mary Susan Britt was justly cited by Rog and Chaz for her heroic efforts to get Ebertfest up and running. Nate Kohn who has been with Rog since Ebertfest's start was also there, and it was nice to see him and Christy once more. And Michael Phillips, who I was certain wouldn't remember a fan like me, did. I told him that I missed his presence on TV. Still trying hard not to act like a fan.

The gala is generally formal but friendly affair, with several Campus figures opening the festivities by citing Roger and Chaz Ebert's contributions to the program. Roger arrived last, which you could tell by the number of camera flashes going off. His eyes were ebullient as he gave his opening remarks through "Alex" on his macbook. And Chaz followed it through by introducing this year's guests, including us FFC (shyly accepting applause), all of whom were happy to participate. Through it all I kept on trying to introduce newcomers to the vets, so much so that I repeated myself several times. I can't help it; it's worth it to see all the "freshmen" being warmly welcomed.

Once the gala ended, it was off to the Virginia Theater. Still looking more beautiful than any movie theater I've been to. The FFC tended to consolidate towards its usual spot (front, left side). Sitting there once more, I began to miss some buddies who had not yet arrived or wouldn't be coming, specifically David Bordwell, Seongyong Cho (South Korea) and Wael Khairy (Egypt). Some others will be arriving at later times/dates, but I can't help but hope that we get to see each other again.

The Roger and Chaz carried out the Festival introductions, Ebertfest finally commenced with Fritz Lang's towering cinematic masterpiece "Metropolis." This screening however was special, as it featured the rediscovered version found in Argentina in 2008, which was thought to be lost for good. You could identify which portions of the film were unearthed by the vertical lines etched within the celluloid. These new sections to the remastered whole give the film a fluidity of pacing that seemed stunted in previous versions. But seeing it on the Virginia's theater is an experience in itself. And once paired with the awesome soundtrack interpretation by the Alloy Orchestra, it becomes indelible, as if it weren't already. Its standing ovation was inevitable.

Film historian Kristin Thompson introduced the film and explained why it makes perfect sense for this lost version to be found in Argentina. And together with Michael Phillips, Ignaty Vishnevetsky and the Alloy Orchestra, they moderated the film's Q&A session.

The second and last film of the night was Robbie Pickering's "Natural Selection," which itself seemed to be an unnatural selection for Ebertfest.

Films that haven't found distribution or are brand new typically do not get selected by Roger. But this film, as pointed out by Chaz earlier in the evening, struck him so deeply that he demanded the film be shown at Ebertfest after his panel had seen it at the South By Southwest Film Festival, where it had won multiple awards. These instructions came at a time when all screening schedules had already been set.

It was worth it. It features a new filmmaking talent in Robbie Pickering who is supremely confident in his abilities, adroitly switching between polished beauty and grounded sensibility; wacky fun and kind sensitivity; religious satire and genuine empathy. It's a film that knows how to balance its assets and hardly ever steps wrong. It also features fantastic performance by its entire cast, but none better than that of Rachael Harris, a comedic actress who plays her part without mockery or malice. I absolutely loved it.

The film's Q&A was handled by Michael Phillips, Matt Zoller Seitz, and the film's visiting guests, with Mr. Pickering swearing enthusiastically as Ali rightly described, "like a drunken sailor." It was a long give and take between artist and the audience with many laugh out loud moments, including details of "filming porn" which was crucial to the storyline. As it went on, I discovered that the "Oregon Boys" were back. Hopefully not playing hooky allegedly like last time.

As the final panel was winding to a close, I went over to Roger, to let him know what an incredible start it was to the fest, and that it would be tough to follow up on. But like they say, he sure knows how pick 'em.

Back to Ebertfest, Just in the Nick of Time

2011-04-27T10:23:09Z

Another year, another Ebertfest visit. It all seems just like yesterday coming back here to Champaign-Urbana via Chicago. I had spent the last week or so in the Windy City, getting a chance really to take it all in. Visiting it last year was great, but kind of empty without someone to share it with. So this year is all the more special with my wife Claire at my side. It also helps that she'll be the designated photographer.

I forgot how big Union Station's Great Hall is. I revelled in it for a while recalling "The Untouchables." Funny how an area where most passengers come to relax housed a memory of almost unbearable tension.

We arrived a few hours early, just to wander around. As we lined up to board the 393, Claire spotted two familiar faces. It was Gerry Valero and his wife Monica from Mexico! I went over to surprise him and gave them hugs. They arrived just in the nick of time, as Gerry told me their plane landed nearly two hours late. Could it have been from the rain? I think so, as coming into Chicago, we couldn't see the top of the Sears Tower due to thick fog (Yeah I know it's Willis Tower, but only on paper).

The trip took just over two hours, and as we arrived we were greeted by Spencer Turkin, the same fellow who hosted me last year. Boy did he look different.

I won't be posting any before/after pics but Spence lost a lot of weight (around 60 pounds) and looked great! Compared to my own pathetic attempt (about 7 pounds since the same time last year), I have to get crackin'. Though something tells me I'll be complaining about it once more next year.

On the way to the Illini Union, he mentioned how the Midwest had been hit by tornadoes in the past few weeks. Illinois hasn't been spared, but luckily none have come near Champaign-Urbana. It's somewhat unnerving when you turn on the TV and their are tornado warnings on several channels cautioning you to stay tuned. Hopefully the weather will cooperate in the next 5 days.

So far, the climate here has been comfortable. Finally we can walk around without three warm layers of clothing like we did in Chi-Town. The University of Illinois campus is still as I remember it. Brown rustic buildings. Abundant greenery. Cobblestone streets inviting us for walks everywhere.

But first, I was starving. Once we registered our room, we headed out into the campus-town. And as usual, there was an avalanche of bread wherever I looked. America is sandwich heaven, which is kind of a nightmare for my diet (but hell I'm on vacation). Went for pizzas. I learned never to order the large sized drinks here. Since the last one we ordered at an AMC theater came in the form of a small colosseum.

I discovered that Spence had helped organize a free movie screening in the evening for the benefit of Illini students to participate during Ebertfest (we need more guys like him). The film shown was "American Movie," a documentary (unseen by me) which chronicles the making of the indie horror film "Coven" by Mark Borchardt. I wasn't able to start the screening because of dinner. But as Claire and I arrived at the auditorium, Spence told me I had go participate in the film's panel since Ali Arikan's flight was delayed in Chicago. Ebertfest hasn't even started and theyre already stressing me out.

I couldn't help out because I hadn't seen the doc, but I was assured it was ok and I didn't need to go up there (whew!). We grabbed a few seats close to the stage and low and behold, Ali appeared, just in the nick of time. He told me later on that he hadn't even gotten his room yet, just dropping his bags with reception to make it (there's commitment for you kids).

Ali joined Illini alum Eric Pierson on the stage, and low and behold, Mark Borchardt himself sat between them to share his experiences. I didn't know anything about Mark before the panel, but he's quite a character. During the Q&A with several students, you could see his enthusiasm and good naturedness, with answers usually coming in triplicate ("Totally. Totally. Totally.") always finishing with "man." Three words crept into my mind listening to him: Stream of Consciousness. Sprinkled amongst his ramblings were little nuggets of real depth, intelligence, and appreciation. The students who came to see him seemed to recognize that, never being disrespectful.

After it was over, I introduced Claire to Ali. Hugs all around. Spence introduced a fellow host named Jake, which I'm sure we'll get to know much better in the next few days. Ali invited us for drinks, but we just had dinner and had to retire. Knowing what Ali went through (an 18 hour travel), I would want to get smashed too. Anyway, there'll be lunch the next day; enough time to meet up with the rest of the gang who'll be there.

Off Claire and I went back to finally rest. Just in the nick of time.

"Willing Willie" and Filipino Self-Hatred

2011-04-12T03:54:28Z

Most of us know about the "Willing Willie" scandal by now. A little boy named Jan Jan simulates a strip tease for money on a number on rated variety show, to the stunning delight of an impoverished audience. Its host, Willie Revillame, either laughing at Jan Jan or at the absurdity of it all, encourages the kid to perform twice more. The last instance being on top of a rising pedestal, with the mocking adoration of scantily dressed lady dancers. A truly demented scene.

Outrage was not swift. It took two weeks for the incident to be considered newsworthy. Thanks to a few journalists (especially Benjamin Pimentel), the episode caught the nation's hold, especially online through social media. Soon it spread globally, reaching various international news media, which classified the proceedings as tawdry tabloid fare.

It was after such coverage that people started to act. Politicians, organizations, religious groups, and local personalities got into the act, calling for advertising boycotts and accountability. The show's network TV5, received an avalanche of complaints. Governing bodies such as the MTRCB started doing their jobs, the church eventually denounced the incident, and corporations started suspending their commercial campaigns.

Which brings me ask, why did it take so long? It took nearly a month for the TV5 to yank the show of the air, though temporarily, and as a pre-emptive move before it will be eventually suspended by the authorities. Only after being shamed by international coverage did the dominoes start to fall. Why does it take notice from the foreign media to get our act together?

Do Filipinos have such self-hatred that we do not hold our actions important until the whole world does? Remember the bus hostage situation involving Hong Kong nationals? Would we have acted with such grim purpose if those casualties were entirely our own? Look at how our media almost exclusively covers "Filipino-Americans" (Fil-Ams) who weren't born and have never set foot in the Philippines? Such coverage helps demeans the local experience as compared to those living abroad. Most Filipinos believe a worthwhile future doesn't exist within our borders, and that's beyond tragic.

It's a story we've heard over and over again. We gladly cross the street when the "Don't Walk" sign is on, cut in line when we can, litter when nobody's looking, and taunt each other over arguments. We do this all the time back home, but we would never dream of doing these same things in other countries. We'd consider it unthinkable, fearing to be considered uncivilized. Why is it ok here, and not there?

I constantly encounter the same attitude when I give my opinions on local media. Once I hold Filipino films, TV, news, and others to the same standard as I would do any other, I am usually accused of hating my own kind. "You shouldn't compare! We can't do it as well as they can! Ganyan talaga!" To quote Bruce Hornsby, "That's just the way it is."

Would we cut in line while touring America? Would we jaywalk in Japan? Would we childishly insult a Saudi Arabian while trying to make a point? Would we let a caucasian child dance like a stripper on national TV? Why do we gladly demean ourselves but never when a foreigner is looking? Why do we hold ourselves to a lower standard?

Why do we treat ourselves this way?

As much as I regret this way of thinking, what Willie Revillame did could be a godsend for us. Philippine Television has already begin to look at ways to prevent the exploitation of children for future shows, which is a very welcome development.

But I pray that his embarrassment (which is our embarrassment) causes most of us dig deeper into our national malaise. We don't need an indefensible act to reach foreign shores to be deemed indefensible. We need to hold ourselves to a higher standard. We need to own up to our shortcomings. We need to open ourselves up to criticism. We really need to love ourselves more.

"That's just the way it is. Ah, but don't you believe them."

Greatest Endings - 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY

2011-04-04T09:51:20Z

Note: I wrote these musings as a contribution to Nick Duval's (@flickpmonster) collection of Cinema's Great Last Scenes and Endings. Check them out to see the rest of the entries!

It begins with an elderly man on what appears to be his deathbed. His surroundings convey a bareness of clinical classicism, while his eyes betray a presence in the room. He reaches out in frailty towards a towering black monolith, perfect in its form, its authority, and its indifference. And as we stand in awe of its imposing equanimity, we come to discover that the elder is now an infant, but of a very different sort. Encased in a sac of light, aglow as a halo, undisturbed, unperturbed, and aware. Two perfect beings now inhabit the room. And from the once human perspective, we zoom into the monolith, with Zarathustra starting to speak.

Is the monolith an alien intelligence, satisfied with our progress, content to trigger our next evolutionary step? Is the monolith death, who has come to usher man to a new kind of existence? Is the room what humanity knows, and the monolith the unknown? As we ponder these very human concerns, we can't help but feel humbled by their use in Stanley Kubrick's incredible interpretation and amalgamation. All within just the first half of this final scene (perhaps the greatest of all final scenes), which ends with even more power and haunting indelibility.

We are back in the infinity of space, the moon in sight, panning slowly to Earth. As our home comes to full view, another glowing celestial seems to be nearing beside it. It is the starchild, gazing at it, gazing at us. And as Richard Strauss's "Also Sprach Zarathustra" booms its climax, we ponder once more. What thoughts lie behind those baby blue eyes. The answer may lie in the music; the prophet has come to speak to mankind.

Video Games are Art

2011-04-02T03:24:26Z

A few days ago, I was one of many critics who panned the film SUCKER PUNCH. Though I hadn't written my own, I advocated several reviews that I felt reflected my sentiments.

Though I agreed in their disapproval, two words kept on reappearing with each negative review I had parsed through: "video game." To say that the film draws greatly upon video game aspects is accurate. But with each citation, my fellow critics continue to beat the dead horse of an argument that video games are a meaningless form of mindless entertainment.

I grew up on movies and on video games, and love and respect what they bring to the table. Though I enjoy them on different levels, they both have given me moments of wonder and serious reflection. As an avid gamer and film lover, I find it a shame to see how one medium has gained artistic acceptance while the other continues to be derided by the mainstream. There are many reasons why they are looked down upon, but if you give them a shot, you just might that video games should be considered art.

The very first video games were the result of experiments and hobbies in the 50s and 60s, created within university confines. They were mostly created out of boredom and were no more sophisticated than monotone blocks or blips on Cathode Ray Tubes. Their function was simple: to facilitate competition between others or with oneself.

Soon the concept became commercial, and as time went by, competition, consumer demand and technological advances fueled the evolution of video games. Increases in storage permitted more content. Greater memory and processing speeds allowed complex movement and visual effects to improve. Simple moveable objects gave way to vaguely recognizable characters. A single screen of activity grew into "side-scrolling," and eventually movement through simulated three-dimensional space. Inevitably, all these developments became the source for the growth of narrative in video games.

Narrative had been associated with the medium for quite some time, but initially as a marketing tool. Read the box covers for Atari's "Berzerk," "Defender," or "Missle Command" and you'll be told what your character, your tasks, and your overall mission will be. But in reality you'll be shooting colorful lines fired from one pixilated blob to a whole host of others.

It never seemed that silly to us gamers when we first played these games. We never viewed these screen blips as realistic beings or objects. We were playing pretend, investing our emotions and imaginations in our video avatars, however primitive they seemed in appearance or capability.

Newer generations of consoles and computers allowed more text and increased picture quality. Blockish objects started morphing into detailed images and figures. "Super Mario" would be saving the princess, Ryu Hayabusa of "Ninja Gaiden" would go on epic quests, the House of Atreides would come to rule in "Dune II," music would be composed to set mood, and many other stories of fun and adventure would soon come to be realized.

With each improvement in the appearance and gesticulation of our avatars, we would invest more and more of ourselves in them. Mario's poses would become as distinct as Chaplin's. We'd imagine Michael Jordan really playing for the Chicago Ox in "Double Dribble." We'd remember the signature finishing moves of "Street Fighter" and "Mortal Kombat," hum the tunes to "Legend of Zelda," and fly space fighters in "Wing Commander" that would rival those in "Star Wars."

These progressions in narrative, setting, and characterization were overwhelmingly at the service of competition. You had a score to top or an enemy to defeat. The specific skill you wanted to improve or enjoy was more important than the plot that it hung onto if any. This was the very idea of video games from their inception.

But at this point the medium had become about much more than just fun. It became a receptacle of emotional investment, a new storytelling frontier, and surprisingly, a form of artistic expression. Evading pawns on a chessboard could not evoke a response as emotional as getting Pac-Man to evade ghosts, or Luigi to avoid koopas. Any board game, no matter how well crafted, could never approach the visual splendor of "Final Fantasy 7." Tag, hopscotch, or cops and robbers never tell stories, while games like "Fallout" offer various endings.

Perhaps the very description is the problem, as "games" deal mainly with strategy and competition. But a video game is a different beast, one that has evolved significantly past its forbearers. It isn't merely a game, but a medium, conveying information and artistry that has yet to hit its stride. Its capability for human expression is not a replacement for its original purpose, but a complement. Similarly, a Studebaker may be all the more prized for the beauty and character its design when viewed in the context of what it was made for: transportation.

There has been much debate among game scholars on how video games can achieve recognition as an art form. The divide is between the narratologists and ludologists. Narratology concentrates on narrative theories usually devoted to more traditional art forms such as prose or film. Ludology focuses on the medium's original terms as related to gameplay. The consensus leans toward the latter, not wanting the medium to turn into a form of mutated cinema. The British author, journalist and critic Steven Poole writes:

"A beautifully designed videogame invokes wonder as the fine arts do, only in a uniquely kinetic way. Because the videogame must move, it cannot offer the lapidary balance of composition that we value in painting; on the other hand, because it can move, it is a way to experience architecture, and more than that to create it, in a way which photographs or drawings can never compete. If architecture is frozen music, then a videogame is liquid architecture."

One example that fits this description is "Grand Theft Auto 4," the latest in a series usually chided by the mainstream media as extremely violent. Though it is that, its latest iteration has one of the greatest characters ever created in the history of the gaming: a fully realized New York City.

GTA4 is aesthetically valuable not just because of the carnage one can create in its workings, nor of its countless unique characters, which are all terrifically voiced. But because of the "Big Apple's" staggering detail, marvelously accuracy, and remarkable fit for its "Scarface"-like storyline. Moving through its streets, its buildings, its parks, with sections made to fit within the GTA sensibilities, and listening to impeccably chosen songs across the decades to set appropriate moods in specific moments and locales; this virtual city is a feat that has never been done before.

Another video game where spatial movement can be observed aesthetically is "Prince of Persia," where an avatar must navigate physical obstacles to get from point A to B. Rarely has what is essentially a puzzle game looked so picturesque, with its hero's physical movements so graceful and athletic, along with animation techniques that further enhance its appearance. From a purely visual standpoint, this game is a vivid dream.

Though many gaming experts feel that gameplay should be the focus in the artistic development of video games, there are other aspects that can be manipulated without taking away from its core.

Take for example "Limbo," probably the most atmospheric video game ever made that facilitates the feeling of quiet dread. No music is used; no color appears. Its palette is purely black and white. Its protagonist is a child forced to tread through the unknown. His movements are minute, leaving only the sound of footsteps. And the clues to his humanity are his small white eyes. The dangers he encounters are never telegraphed easily. Each anticipated encounter is terrifying. His adversaries include sharp objects, shadowy monsters, and even other children. A special video game separated from the rest by its signature look style and mastery of mood (never play this game in the dark).

Or take "Shadow of the Colossus" a fantasy game that forgoes a lot of traditional video game elements and somehow evokes true wonder, regret, loss, and surprising poignancy. It has a young hero who looks far from heroic, running clumsily, looking to resurrect his fallen love. He hears an alien voice telling him to slay 16 colossi, each of which is so wondrous a creation that Miyazaki would be proud. There are no foes on the way to your adversaries, just a dreamlike landscape that reminds me of the Valley of the Wind. You don't have a score to keep, no levels to climb, no abilities to gain, no extra lives to add. Find a colossus and kill it. And once you do, it doesn't feel like a victory, but like an injury to the Earth, making you think what a waste man is. Even the ending to the game is completely unexpected, wonderful, and poetically connected to its predecessor.

One game that completely changed how I think about gameplay, and that was "Braid," a game unlike any other before or since. It took the side-scrolling platform genre (think Super Mario) but used time and direction (as perceived within the game) as obstacles. Imagine climbing a platform with moving objects, but when your character moves from left-to-right, everything else moves forward in time; when your character moves from right-to-left, everything moves backward in time. Describing it as such doesn't seem like much until you experience the game's absolutely ethereal feel, which can range from whimsical to melancholy, depending on how you interpret its journey and story. Its backgrounds are like organic Van Gogh paintings. Its jigsaw puzzles reveal the downward spiral of a loving relationship. And its finale, a kind of gaming masterpiece, uses the flow of time to show how the hero really is the villain.

One cannot make a judgment about these games or others like them simply by watching recorded gameplay, any more than you could judge a book by its cover, or a movie by its trailer. What ultimately defines a video game is its interactivity: the ability for its audience to participate in and shape its experience. Video games are an elastic medium, capable of malleable environments and fragmented storylines (or the illusion of such). With narrative art forms, there is no direct participation other than to receive, and hence no competition compelling one to finish.

The nature of the beast reveals how differently a game designer works as compared to an author. A good author creates characters that appeal to our senses and lays out a fixed journey. A good game designer has to create a character we shall inhabit, and want to inhabit, by anticipating how we feel about the journey he has laid out for us. Media Scholar and Professor Henry Jenkins describes it perfectly:

"The game designer's craft makes it possible for the player to feel as if they are in control of the situation at all times, even though their game play and emotional experience is significantly sculpted by the designer. It is a tricky balancing act, making the player aware of the challenges they confront, and at the same time, insuring they have the resources necessary to overcome those challenges."

This statement clarifies why many video game adaptations from film and film adaptations from video games ultimately fail. Each art form's success or appeal depends on how each operates intrinsically. Crossing aesthetics is like driving a left-hand drive car on the left side of the road. This also serves to show why we shouldn't compare films with video games, any more than we should compare apples and steak.

If video games have artistic merits, why aren't they considered seriously? One basic reason is barrier to entry. Unlike movies, which in essence any person can view, many video games require skill to be experienced (one of the medium's unique traits). One tends to get wiser at movies with age. But if you asked John Madden to play the latest version of his franchise video game, he'd be sacked. It's the main reason why the mainstream hasn't accepted it fully.

If you thought films have been hopelessly commercialized and pigeonholed, it's even worse for the gaming industry. Sequel-itis is more rampant (there are more Madden video games than Bond films). Creativity is much harder to come by. Corporations are more capable of making big-budget games, which cost as much if not more than big-budget movies. And artistry in games is the last priority. Games don't connote artistry, but fun.

Video game criticism also plays a huge part in the lack of the medium's general acceptance. They judge by very different criteria due the nature of the subject. Games are almost universally dissected and evaluated according to their components (story, graphics, gameplay, etc) rather than as an overall experience. But if they do look at the overall picture, video game criticism lacks the same kind of passion, prose, and knowledge that exists in their counterparts (one exception is Seth Schiesel of the New York Times).

This can't be blamed on video game critics, as the medium is quite young. Film criticism has had a century to have its ideas and theories refined, while video games have just recently entered into an arena worthy of discussion. Unless its critics start becoming more familiar with the study of its scholars, it will be a while before video game criticism gets a footing in punditry.

Roger Ebert once said that he believes that video games can never be art. I won't lie; those words stung me. From the day I started reading him, he has always been affirming films and artists with thoughtfulness and respect, regardless of their acceptance by the establishment. He gave weight to genres like anime, martial arts, fantasy, action spectacles and silly comedies by treating them as seriously any other film. He once compared Jackie Chan to Charlie Chaplin and Jim Carrey to Jerry Lewis. He cited the skill and gravitas Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis add to their roles. He gives credit to where credit is due.

This is my "Forty Guns" effort. Martin Scorsese once tried to convince Michael Powell how great Samuel Fuller was. I'm no Scorsese of course. But how he felt at that time is how I feel now.

Video games are art, just not in the way we would traditionally think of or perceive. Perhaps not a high art, but art nonetheless. It is true that no video game has ever been considered to be on par with any great work of art, and I believe none can be deemed as such, for now. It's a young art form. And I'm sure that if Roger were asked that same question with regards to film, when movies where merely nickelodeon pieces, he'd say the same thing.

Not all arts reach everyone. There are some that I myself will never consider as such. But I do my best to give each the benefit of the doubt by experiencing it on its terms.

Rog, I do hope that one day, you can.

Note: My deep thanks go out to @carolynmichelle @natashabadhwar @msmanet @aliaena and to all those who gave their input.

A very special thanks goes out to Professor @HenryJenkins whose studies on video games and media as a whole provided the backbone of this piece. Whether you find video games meaningful or are skeptical of their value, please read his scholarly piece "Games: The New Lively Arts" and the illuminating "Reality Bytes: Eight Myths About Video Games Debunked."

A Letter to Egypt

2011-02-11T19:13:43Z

Congratulations Egypt! You've toppled a 30-year reigning dictator, and high hopes abound for better times. Your struggle for the last 18 days has been arduous and beyond noble. But the road ahead will be just as difficult if not more so.

If you want to ask what could happen next for a country formerly ruled for decades by a United States-supported "strongman," you could always ask the Philippines. In 1986, we deposed Ferdinand Marcos who was at the helm for 20 years. America supported him because of the Cold War, as our country has had a communist insurgency for over 40 years. And though Ronald Reagan distanced himself from Marcos in the mid 1980s because of "Martial Law," he would have to live with him rather than risk having another Asian nation falling to communism.

In the year of our revolt, it took a breathtaking 4 days from February 22-25 to see Marcos fall from power. What started as a protest against a rigged election resulted in defections from sections of the military, and eventually to a massive civilian uprising led by the Catholic Church. An estimated 1-3 million people flooded EDSA, a highway now forever linked by memory to this event.

EDSA was our Tahrir Square. Though our revolution had nowhere near as much casualties, nor violence as brutal, there was always the constant fear that troops would open fire on civilians, as government forces were known to be behind violent acts against opposition groups throughout the country for many years. Tanks rolled through Manila just as they did Cairo. But when they could not fire on the people, we knew we had won.

Soon enough, Marcos was asking the US for help, with Senator Paul Laxalt advising him to head for the hills. Given safe passage, he fled in shame to Hawaii of all places (Oh, the agony!). He died in exile in 1989, and his remains weren't allowed to return to the Philippines with his family until 1991 after much debate. When he died, the majority of Filipinos couldn't have cared less. Some even felt happy.

We were euphoric when he left. The Presidential Palace was abandoned and hundreds crawled through it, stomping on portraits of our fleeing President. Songs and videos were made immortalizing what we had just done. We were the toast of the world. So much so that the term People Power was associated with our feat. CBS anchorman Bob Simon said, "We Americans like to think we taught Filipinos democracy. Well, tonight they are teaching the world."

Did things get better for the Philippines? It depends who you ask. The late Corazon "Cory" Aquino, wife of beloved Senator Benigno "Ninoy" Aquino who was assassinated a few years before the EDSA revolution, was sworn in as president. She had no political experience whatsoever, but she was an honest lady who embodied the hopes and aspirations of an entire nation. Under her 6-year term, she oversaw a government which drafted a new (though somewhat flawed) constitution and survived 7 coup attempts. Many of the politicians who ran in the wake of Marcos's ouster were revealed to be opportunists over time. Her own vice-president became one of her staunchest critics.

Some of those coups were started by insurgents of communist origin. But by 1992, after the fall of Soviet Union, the US Air Force and Naval Bases were voted by Congress to be removed. Despite the loss of hundreds of thousands of jobs, it ultimately proved to be a good thing, as surrounding communities were able to adjust. Today, communist inspired insurgent elements are still there, but are reduced to an almost purely criminal element, supplying vigilante justice in absence of competent local governance.

Infrastructure has been a low priority in the time since (except for a short period in the 90s). Government policies were weak in conception and enforcement. Graft and corruption became endemic. Because of the Church's success at EDSA, its influence on individual freedoms and economic growth was immense. In 1986 our population was about 56 million. In 2009, it was over 91 million. Egypt is three times larger than the Philippines, but we have more people. No matter how much our economy grows, our population outpaces it.

You can hear this argument throughout much of South East Asia; that unless you have a strongman running the country, it won't improve. If you ask many Filipinos if they'd want to return to the days of the Marcos era, some will say yes, longing for "order" as opposed to freedom running wild.

But we tend to forget how dehumanizing life can be when you have a dictator who doesn't care about his people. We forget the brutality unleashed if power wants to get its way. We have had Presidents who have been greedier than Marcos since he left, but they never dared play around with the country's constitution. Marcos switched from a presidential to a parliamentary system while ignoring many of the rules he himself laid down. Filipino Press freedom is probably freer than anywhere else in the world. And though it is mostly shoddy and highly suspect, it is impossible to reign in. Our last two Presidents have had more scandals reported on them than have ever been on Marcos in his time.

In the end regardless of what government is running things, or what system is in place, it's the people who determine how progressive a country is. There are many reasons why the Philippines is doing better or worse than it has, but since Marcos we more or less have a say in how that happens and I believe that is a good thing.

Egypt has shown it believes in that too. And to its citizens, believe me when I say that all of us Filipinos who have lived through People Power are with you now. Learn from us and do better. God bless Egypt and good luck to you all!

Why America Matters To Me

2010-11-25T10:01:28Z

Some friends have asked me why I tweet so much about the United States and its issues. I've often wondered about that myself. My short answer would be that its media and news dominate the airwaves and the web. But giving it more thought, America has shaped me longer than I have known.

For those of you don't know yet, or are confused by the various locales mentioned in my tweets, I am Filipino, a citizen of the Philippines, that archipelago smack in the middle of South East Asia. Situated in the middle of the ocean, our country has been prone to colonization. The British, Chinese, Dutch, Japanese, Portuguese, and Spanish have all wanted a piece of us, and have done so in some way or another. The last group of folks which had our number were the Americans, having bought our nation from the Spanish, who merely had the reins for over 300 years.

America's Love Slave

The Japs got to briefly kick the Joes out in World War II, until MacArthur made good on his promise and came back to "return" the favor. Towards the end of that great conflict, the US granted our independence but not without leaving behind their education and political systems, and a few of their military bases to keep a presence in the region.

The conquered always have a love-hate relationship with their conquerors. We love to harp on the harm caused in our societies and cultures, yet their have been undeniable benefits we've gained as well. I will not debate the pros and cons, nor am I saying that the Philippines sucks (all countries suck in their own special way). I merely wish to share what I have found valuable in America.

You have to understand that among South East Asian nations, the Philippines has a secretive passion for all things American. You could say that we are its love slave. For all the perceived failings and subjugation we've endured under the US, if you ask pretty much any Filipino if he or she would like to go to America, they'd jump the first chance they'd get.

My father was one of them. Though I never talked to him about it, growing up under Japanese occupation and witnessing liberation via US Armed Forces must have had a profound effect on him. He graduated from West Point with high honors and chose to come back to serve for the Philippine government in several capacities. He was quite nationalistic, yet at home, there would rarely be a time he wouldn't speak in English.

1980s, English, TV and Movies

Growing up in the Philippines in the 1980s, English wasn't the condescending status symbol of superiority it is today. It was the language of TV, of Cartoons, and the Movies. It was spoken most among the learned and the hip. As far as I knew, everyone and everything which was making me happy spoke it, and so did I.

I cannot remember my childhood without Bert and Ernie, without being absolutely flustered when Snuffleupagus was unseen, or without being serenaded by the pure melodies of Joe Raposo. I remember Big Bird learning about Mr. Hooper's passing, counting to 12, rubber duckies, and loving fluffy monsters. With his creations, storytelling and kindness, Jim Henson was my second father.

While Sesame Street and Hanna-Barbera ruled the mornings, campy TV shows took my evenings. I would always wait for Starsky and Hutch, CHiPs, The A-Team, along with a whole slew of others night watches. How could I deny KITT, B.A. Baracus, a green Lou Ferrigno, and Thomas Magnum. O it wasn't just action, it was everything else. I rode The Love Boat, found Three's Company, and wondered if The Price Is Right. If there were vehicles, there too was my attention, even for The Plane! The Plane!

Films even had a greater impact on me, whether in the Cinema or on Betamax. People who complained about piracy now should have been with us back then, where "video rental shops" were ubiquitous, filled with bootlegged tapes of every American film, TV show, and mini-series you could find. The only difference now is that its digital.

It felt as if America was an unending stream of creativity, with stories and concepts no one in our entertainment industry had even come close to thinking of. We copied what we saw and what we saw was everything we hoped, everything we aspired to; not to mention being the land of milk and honey.

I realized this "manna from heaven," noticing all of the toy commercials which had been recorded in bootlegs. Globalization was a term that hadn't been coined yet. There was no Toys R' Us in Asia. No Cabbage Patch Kids, no Barbie and Ken, no He-Men or Transformers we could purchase. There were few who were fortunate enough to go to the US for work, and my father was again one of them. He would ask me to make lists of what I wanted, and from then, two words symbolized America for my generation: "The States!"

Travel

Every so often, dad would come back from his numerous business trips and have toys and treats for my sister and I. Looking back, we were spoiled silly, but who can blame the guy having grown up dirt poor? We were so indulgent that we thought about the toys more than we did him every time would let us know he would return. Soon I would learn about Disneyland, Disneyworld, and other countless attractions in "The States!" It was something all Filipino kids of my upbringing looked forward to.

And travel to the US we did. I remember every year I've been there, and every sight I've seen. You cannot explain what a joy it is for a guileless young kid to visit Mickey and the gang, taking pictures with characters having only seen in 2D; at shopping mall playing video games for the first time; or driving through the vast American landscape listening to "Don't disturb this groove" and "Kyrie."

Many foreigners think of the US as crass and commercial, but it has a diversity and natural wonders you won't see anywhere else in the world.

I felt claustrophobic in Manhattan, humbled by the Lincoln Memorial, beside myself at the Smithsonian, and speechless at Monument Valley. The Grand Canyon always looked surreal, Hoover Dam confounded me, and Vegas held me starry-eyed. I played ball on the playgrounds of LA, line-danced in Arizona, chattered my teeth off by San Francisco's Golden Gate, and felt kind of serene in Utah's Zion. I've heard bad things about Orlando, but I've never seen a city so full of greenery. Americans like to blast D.C., but The Mall holds a lot of reverie for me. I wasn't so wild about New York City like I was for Chicago, but every corner of it is as alive and vibrant as it is crowded.

1990s, AFRTS, Public Service Announcements and CNN

Back in the Philippines in the early 1990s, our Congress was deciding whether to have the US Bases removed or not. It was a big deal at the time since their presence provided hundreds of thousands of jobs for surrounding communities. But it also supplied a huge prostitution enterprise in the region, plus it was being debated how valuable it was towards the end of the cold war. Personally I didn't want them to go, because for teens like me, they provided an invaluable resource: The Armed Forces Radio and Television Service (AFRTS now known as AFN).

There was no such thing as cable TV in the Philippines then. People saw US programs either from what national broadcasting stations could afford to purchase (which often came late) or from freakishly tall antenna towers modified to pick up AFRTS. It was cable before cable. I don't know what Americans think about AFN now, but back then, it was a godsend.

AFRTS provided TV and Movie programming, which otherwise would never have been seen in the Philippines. I was transfixed by Al Bundy, completely confused by Twin Peaks, and thrilled by MC Hammer. I saw Michael Jordan, Joe Montana, and Wayne Gretzky near their peaks. I discovered Wimbledon, learned the rules of American football, as well as NCAA collegiate schools. Notre Dame and Lou Holtz seemed to be mentioned every hour. I found out what the Final Four was, and I woke up early to watch NBA All Star Games and the Superbowl.

AFRTS also allowed me to see movies I would have never seen before. I cried at DRIVING MISS DAISY, sat agape at CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THIRD KIND, and would you believe, was mesmerized by NAUSICAA OF THE VALLEY OF THE WIND. Whoever was responsible for showing Anime films on those Saturday afternoons, I owe a great deal.

It wasn't just all entertainment. In some ways, I learned more from AFRTS than I did from school. There were no "commercials" in the traditional sense for the service back then. It would always be ads showing me my brains on drugs, how only I can stop forest fires, proper driving distances, buckling up, conserving water, US Treasury Bonds, Yul Brynner and John Huston telling me not to smoke, and those numerous Library of Congress commercials ("Read more about so and so in your library").

There would always be a special program, like one hosted by John Ritter on different types of emergencies. Stop, Drop and Roll. Don't leave your dog in the car, etc. It may sound like torture to today's TV viewers, but at the time, it never felt boring or corny. Those were less cynical times, and I felt I was always learning something. My parents never had to warn me about drugs, tobacco or safe sex. I knew more than them!

But the most important thing AFRTS gave me was CNN. It wasn't just my window into the US. It was the world. I saw the Persian Gulf War, the Berlin Wall coming down, the coup where Yeltsin helped save Gorbachev. I saw the Tiananmen Square protests. I saw George H. W. Bush become like a God, and saw his ratings plummet the way he fainted in Japan. It opened my eyes to the Middle East, Europe, Japan and China. And from then on, my mind would beg to learn more. It has not stopped since.

Since

The US Bases were voted out by Congress, and along with it went AFRTS. But Cable soon arrived, probably from the realization that we couldn't live without American media. With Cable I learned more about BBC, ABC News, the triumvirate of Peter Jennings, Dan Rather, and Tom Brokaw. I'd add Ted Koppel as St. Peter.

The film love which AFRTS triggered in me made me think more about movies. I rented more and more laserdiscs and learned of Roger Ebert's blurbs, which seemed to be on all of them. If you had told me then that I would get to meet him personally, it just would not be fathomable.

I've learned a great deal more since then about America good and bad. I have seen it through the eyes of public television and have arrived at my views today. People think I'm a liberal. Am I? I guess so. But I really don't know what that truly means. All I can say is that I owe so much to America. My principles, my values, my beliefs, my relationships are all deeply connected to American ideas. And when I see now what is happening to it, I'm afraid.

One of my good friends says that there is no serious discussion in America about the things which ail it. Perhaps not directly. But for me, no other country takes the time to talk about its issues and its progress more than the United States, indirectly as it may. We in the "outside world" see it, and mark my words, it really is inspiring. No other country openly questions the status quo like America. That is its weakness and its strength.

I asked a very close Filipino-Chinese friend of mine if he was impressed with China. He answered "Yes they're rising, and its good. But think about it. Who owns the businesses, the banks, the software, the products, the ideas that they're using? It's still mainly America and the West. America has "it," and still has it. It's just the rules of the game that are changing.

I write this for my American friends just letting them know that this Thanksgiving, though I don't celebrate it, I am beyond grateful.

What kind of people have we become?

2010-08-26T06:31:36Z

I sit here taking in the enormity of our recent hostage crisis. Intense emotions swirl through me: shock, disbelief, sorrow, disappointment.

How did it come to this, witnessing this confluence of staggering ineptitude, irresponsiblity, and insensitivity? Our police bungled, our news media cared for nothing but ratings, and the throngs of people nearby gawked and stared as if a play were being performed.

Watching our SWAT team carry out its operations, it was clear that they lacked the training and resources needed to end the standoff. If our Philippine National Police (PNP) can't even get decent uniforms, what more of its tactics or tools? Though this glaring need was predictable, it is still inexcusable.

How about our broadcast news media airing the entire experience live, at the expense of giving an advantage to the hostage-taker? Rolando D. Mendoza could have easily known what the police were up to and could have been provoked by seeing his brother being taken away by authorities. Though it's true that it may not have mattered, in scenarios such as these, you want to take away any factors that may exacerbate the situation. Let's be frank here, most of our broadcast media have never cared for anything but getting the scoop, damn it all.

And my word, have we become so desensitized to violence to gather around the crime scene getting in the way of paramedics and rescuers, impeding the lives of those who are tenously hanging on? Have we become so inured to sensationalism that we take pictures of ourselves in front of a blood-filled bus? How tragically ironic that we act like tourists where tourists were killed!

How I wish it didn't take an international incident like this to make us question what the hell is happening to us. Our culture of compromise has come back to bite us in the ass. With our governments (local or otherwise) going "Pwede na!" in bolstering our police force, with our newsmen going "Bahala na!" with regards to their journalistic protocols, and with some of our citizens (even policemen!) going "Bongga!" in front of ghastly areas.

Now we are reaping the whirlwind. Hong Kong citizens are calling for our heads, possibly endangering the massive number of Filipino helpers who earn their living there. As of this writing, I have already received tweets calling me and my fellow countrymen "inhuman," which is much kinder than what some others are calling us. I constantly decry how Muslims are being unfairly stereotyped in the US. We will know soon enough what they are going through.

Filipinos love to laugh at the vulgarity of our ills. It's one of the few ways we have left to deal with the injustices we've gone through. And due to our strong Catholic upbringing, we easily forgive and forget. We can blame it all on the Spanish and the Americans for imposing their will on us so strongly and unmercifully. But in the end, we have to accept responsiblity for our actions and inaction. You can't go on Oprah and complain about your parents forever.

As a nation, we haven't reached adulthood yet. It is my sincere hope that we get there sooner than later. But do we really need lessons that costs the lives of families who came to the Philippines to witness our country's beauty, only to be assaulted by its grotesques?

What saddens me most is that none of this would come to our attention if it didn't involve foreigners. It took the world's eye to make us question our identity. As Conrado De Quiros said it best, what kind of people have we become?

NAUSICAÄ OF THE VALLEY OF THE WIND (****)

2010-08-19T17:56:48Z

There is a point in Homer's "The Odyssey" where Odysseus is washed ashore from a shipwreck. In his desperation, a young woman comes to his aid, rescuing him from his end. She was Nausicaa, lover of nature, and eventually serving as a mother of his rebirth.

In Hayao Miyazaki's first masterpiece "Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind" he heralds a protagonist of similar inspiration, whose own odyssey and heroism would also take on Homeric proportions.

The film's story takes place in a dystopian timeline where human civilization appears to be in its last throes. A vast toxic jungle envelops the land, teeming with monstrous insects, hostile to anything that disturbs the expanse. A few kingdoms remain, at war with the jungle and each other. One remaining beacon is the Valley of The Wind, a peaceful and prosperous feudal community, seemingly protected from the jungle by its bordering forest and strong winds.

The Valley's princess, Nausicaa, is a free spirit and genuine "renaissance man." Puzzled by the jungle's nature, she frequents its depths for resources and answers. Aside from mastering flight, she's also a ferocious warrior when need be. But what truly defines her is her uncanny rapport and devotion to all living things.

One day she is visited by Lord Yupa, a noted Valley resident revered for his wisdom and unparalleled swordsmanship. He has returned from his search for a prophesied savior only to return with grim news.

That same evening a massive airship crashes near the valley, attacked by an insect swarm. Having come from the neighboring jungle, it brings spores which threaten the Valley's forest, as well as an uneasy cargo.

The Valley soon learns that its ominous load is a prize sought by warring kingdoms, one of which lays siege to the Valley. This leads to various adventures, escapes, revelations, and locales of staggering creativity. Ranging from underground caverns, to heart of the toxic Jungle, and even to the very stratosphere.

The film is considered to be the first of Miyazaki's works to showcase his strong environmental inclinations. In every film since he has made his case for man to grow closer to nature as a return to the olden days. He does so with positive reinforcement, hardly ever resorting to demonizing, moralizing, or sermonizing. Here, the toxic jungle isn't so much an inhospitable realm as it is a fearsome marvel of nature. It's huge arthropod denizens never come off as oozing grotesques, but wondrous (though scary) creatures. The film's largest creations, the ohmus, are wholly original, and are almost proof that the eyes are the window to the soul.

Miyazaki's refusal to narrow down conflict to two or even three sides is refreshing, and quite admirable considering its target audience. The film's story does concern good versus evil, but they aren't manifested in simplistic ways. Each populace has its own motivations. Each conflict has its reason. Wars exist among man and against nature. Several stakes exist. Even death is hardly out of bounds. For much of the film, there is no one problem/solution. But despite this moral complexity for an animated film, it all fits Miyazaki's big picture, and in the end we see it.

It takes a deep wisdom and understanding of youth to be able to carry out this vision. To know that children will grasp and want to grasp his story and ideas. Miyazaki accomplishes this not only by his storytelling techniques, but also through his visual artistry. Like the very best of Japanese animation, there is a warmth and softness to his illustrations (thanks to his pristine watercolor motifs) that make it almost effortless for viewers to accept and acclimatize to what unfolds on the screen. It allows for his characters and narrative to "breathe" (and breathe deeply), with moments of contemplation and authentic feeling taking hold. Compare this to his contemporaries who have to rely on cutesy gimmicks, frantic pacing, or glitzy style to draw in audience interest.

But its "what" he illustrates that captures our hearts as well as our minds. Much of anime in the past 20 years has concentrated on a utopian future, filled with technological wizardry and innovation, which is abundant in Japanese culture. But Miyazaki tends to look back instead of looking forward, inward instead of outward, looking at treasures of futures past that might have been. Like most of his films, his timeline here isn't technological, but pastoral, with people relying more on each other and the Earth. He favors gorgeous green panoramas usually near blue bodies of water. He is in love with flight with his heroes soaring through the sky, representing our dreams of breaking through our limitations. We sense his hope in women more than men, believing them to be the key to humanity's progress as opposed to man's history of violence. These creeds and themes are held dearly and instinctively by the young and hopeful, and its Miyazaki's ability to convey these naturalistic ideas through his visual imagination, which makes him unique.

And his imagination. My God is it breathtaking. Only Pixar has been able to rival Miyazaki's creative energies in forming entirely new sights, sounds, and stories with each subsequent film. But Pixar is a collection of talent (all of whom pretty much worship him), while Miyazaki is a singular force. While even the greatest of directors have to rely on cast and crew to carry out their visions, Miyazaki pretty much IS the film. He might be the closest thing to the idea of an "auteur" which filmdom has.

Yes I effuse praise for Hayao Miyazaki, but to write about his films can only lead to discussing the marvel that is the man. No other animator has produced such an admired body of work in the past 30 years, nor has influenced so much of its workings. And in the world of animation "Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind" is one of its brightest stars, giving birth to Studio Ghibli and its priceless body of work. It is the seminal Miyazaki film, breathing wonder, tenderness, and life into worlds where we'd all like to live in.

HUD (****)

2010-08-12T15:09:15Z

The 60s were a rough transition for America. Major shifts seemed to be occurring in every fabric of society from civil rights to sexual mores. The worsening course of the Vietnam war fueled distrust in political institutions. Women's rights highlighted a breaking from oppressive traditions. The old seemed to be fading away more radically than ever before.

Like the era it was made in, "Hud" was a key shift. As film critic Emmanuel Levy correctly puts it, it is "a transitional film between the naive films of the early 60s and the more cynical ones later in the decade." Though it plays as a compelling drama of small town life and family tribulation, through its lens of father-son conflict, it also captures the angst in the loss of authority, the gap between of two different generations, and an elegy for the good ole' days.

Based on the novel "Horseman, Pass By" written by that marvelous writer of the contemporary west Larry McMutry (best known for "Lonesome Dove"), "Hud" chronicles the hardships of the O'Bannon family, headed by its elderly patriarch Homer (Melvyn Douglas). He owns a cattle ranch and runs it with the help of his son Hud (Paul Newman), and Hud's wide-eyed nephew Lonnie (Brandon De Wilde). While the O'Bannon boys run the ranch, their housekeeper Alma Brown (Patricia Neal) runs the household.

The film draws much of its power from its relationships, told mainly through Hud's exploits and conversations. A drunk and a womanizer, he can't help but switch from ranch hand to ladies man any chance he gets. Though he is weak with vice he possesses a certainty and a bravery that doesn't quite cross into foolishness. He's sly and not shy.

His father Homer is almost always on his case, and a model of calm unrelenting virtue, which might not be a virtue itself. He harbors a disappointment and bitterness in his son, which may seem apparent to Hud and to us, but goes deeper. Lonnie on the other hand is a true innocent who likes being with Hud because he's the closest thing to being a father figure and a big brother rolled up into one.

One day Homer finds one of his cattle dead, leaving both he and Hud puzzled as to the cause. Both find out soon enough that it is the worst thing that could happen to their way of life. It only brings out the ugliest in both their bitterness towards each other and ethical questions on how to cope with what is to come.

These doubts along with the animosity between father and son reflected the uncertainty of the times "Hud" existed in. Though the story seems to be set in the 50s with its careful attention to rural Americana, it only enhances an elegiac mood of a passing era, which Homer fully embodies. And as his soul seems to wither, his ranch transforms slowly and sadly in step, from buzzing to barren (pictured in gorgeous black and white by legendary cinematographer James Wong Howe). Melvyn Douglas plays him with a authentic dignity that is felt throughout his performance, regardless of how simplistic or vague his characterization is. Even with a simple sing-along moment, he finds away to bring out his heart.

Though Homer might be the counterpoint which Hud plays against, but it's his relationship with Lonnie which helps us sympathize with him. Brandon De Wilde completely conveys a guilelessness which we can't help but reminisce on and care for. We relate to how he admires his grandfather, as it reflects our own hopes in acquiring the wisdom of our elders. But we also understand why he gravitates to Hud as he seeks a fellow exuberant spirit. When we see Hud take Lonnie under his wing, hesitantly revealing secrets, we understand him. Without Lonnie, Hud would be nothing but an ingrate.

Another one of the film's treasures is Alma Brown who arouses desire. Ideal in Lonnie, carnal in Hud. Played by the late Patricia Neal, she provided a refreshing change from the primped up cowboy beauties of the 50s (e.g. Angie Dickinson in "Rio Bravo") and provided a glimpse of the earthier female personas yet to come (e.g. Claudia Cardinale in "Once Upon A Time In The West"). But before or since, has there ever been a tougher or more memorable female character in a contemporary Western than Alma? She shows sensuality without trying to be sexy. She marks interest in Hud without revealing weakness, and her no-nonsense approach was ahead of its time. She more than held her own against Paul Newman, which only adds to her and the film's appeal.

And of course we have the inimitable Paul Newman whose role here would cement his place in the Hollywood firmament (and supply him pretty much a dry run for his most famous role of "Cool Hand Luke"). It should be said the novel portrayed Hud as a man without merit. But here, with grace and gravitas, he supplies Hud with inklings of a soul. We understand why he went wrong, find an hint of where he may have gone wrong, and realize that inflexible nobility can produce its equivalent opposite.

Paul Newman was said to have been shocked that so many viewers felt for Hud O'Bannon instead of viewing him as a villain. Though many people see him as Alma rightly called him, "a cold-hearted bastard," he's more than that. "Hud" as a character of his time embodied a new ethos (right or wrong) longing to break free from old norms and seeking acceptance. As a film, it marked the entry of a new type of Western, one that was more intimate, more cynical, and more authentic than those before it.