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.

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.

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.

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

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. 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 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).

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."

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.