This week is Holy Week, a time when Christians around the world are encouraged to be introspective and repentant in observation of Jesus Christ's self-sacrifice for the sins of man. In light of this, the most important period of the Catholic calendar, are the Church's controversies. The most recent of which are the child abuse sex scandals in Europe and America.

Regardless of how one feels about the Vatican and its handling of its recent crises, one cannot help but doubt how much we feel let down. Religion of any sort has long been regarded as our moral authority. Some today will think it is outdated, others still necessary. Everyone should be able to believe what they want to, but there is no doubt that when it comes to belief, there is nothing quite as dangerous as blind faith.

If there was ever a film about the evils of blind faith, it is Ishmael Bernal's Filipino film HIMALA (meaning "miracle" in Tagalog). And among films involving religion, it is unique in its brave stand against it, long before the last 25 years or so, where it has become fashionable enough to do so.

The film is set in a provincial town, beset by poverty, disease, and harsh climate. Elsa (Nora Aunor), one of its residents, claims to have seen the Blessed Virgin Mary atop a barren hill at the town's outskirts. Soon she is associated with healing the sick. Several visitors become dozens, dozens become hundreds, and before you can say hallelujah, she becomes a news sensation.

Good publicity brings good business. Her fame even brings tourists. Orly (Spanky Manikan), an out-of-town filmmaker, comes to film Elsa's exploits, more skeptical than curious. Another significant arrival is Nimia (Gigi Dueñas), Elsa's close childhood friend, who has returned from the big city (Manila) where she fled prostitution. With the number of people visiting the town, she puts up a cabaret, which surely serves more than song and dance.

Then something befalls Elsa and her confidante Chayong (Laura Centeno) which portends the end of their good fortune. It is followed by a cholera outbreak which Elsa cannot heal. The deaths that result elicit the town's blame. Tourists stop coming, a wealthy patron is murdered, a cherished friend commits suicide. Elsa blames herself for everything. And that's not the end of it.

Many essays that have cited the film note Elsa's healings, but is there really anyone in the film who is directly healed as a result of her? We are told of her miracles, we see her devotees, we even see her go through the motions. But there is not one scene where an ailment disappears or where a suffering is lifted. It cannot be coincidental. Bernal emphasizes that seeing is believing, at least to himself.

The film likes to focus at the seemingly illogical decisions impoverished people make for the sake of being devout. The town is almost desperately poor. Makeshift hostels are put up to cater for foreigners and their indiscretions, but personal fortunes are sacrificed to stay holy.  Nimia gets criticized for putting up what is essentially a strip joint, but in a desolate area where nothing seems to grow, it puts food on the table for those who work there.

Though the film may seem against religion, it doesn't take pot shots at the Church. Remarkably, one of the film's most sane characters is the town's priest (Joel Lamangan who is today a successful Filipino director), who is also skeptical of Elsa's gifts. Whatever his reasons are for doing so, the words he imparts to his flock are restrained and thoughtful.

Nora Aunor is an actress of legendary proportions in the Philippines, whose reputation was most likely canonized by this film. Though she can act with the best of them, what draws Philippines audiences to her is her commonality. She truly looks like an ordinary Filipina, but her acting instincts are at par with the best in knowing how to draw mass sympathy. Here she is, as Filipino film critic Noel Vera best puts it, Bernal's "enigma," dousing any suspicions or presumptions we have of her. Whatever Elma's reasons are, they remain her own, right down to the end.

The film is has many weaknesses. For Filipinos, the dialogue though smartly written is far from genuine. With characters always speaking sequentially, at times it feels like a radio drama play. (but compared to mainstream Philippine cinema, it will feel like a breath of fresh air). Apart from Nora Aunor, the acting is almost completely restrained, with hardly any emotional exclamations of any kind, until the end that is (perhaps it is meant that way to serve a genuine horror at the film's climax). Several events serve no genuine purpose than plot points (Why did Elsa do what she did at the beginning? Why did Orly not act? How could the outrage at Elsa towards the end happen so quickly?), and the explanations behind them, if any, are unbelievable.

Yet these failings fail to derail Ishmael Bernal's mission, which is to show how we disgrace ourselves once we fail to question our most cherished beliefs. We are shown people sacrificing their livelihood, families, and futures, all for the belief that God will help those who do not help themselves. We hear about this in industrialized nations such as the US, but it happens all too often in third world countries as well. And the films mass gatherings, especially in the film's final sequence, are more horrifying than any mass zombie attack. The desperate hope these people display hold a mesmerizing power of hopelessness.

The Philippines is a country where the Catholic Church rules. Divorce and abortion are illegal. Clergymen interfere in politics routinely. Sex education is labelled as a work of the devil. Forgiveness is as easy as sin (Wiki "Imelda" and "Erap"). Ishmael Bernal's HIMALA truly was our cinematic miracle. It confronted our diseased culture of blind faith and asks us to question what is right, and not to be one of the mindless zombies crawling up a hill on its knees.

Marital infidelity is a favorite subject in films. It's one of many taboos which audiences can explore without having to live through its challenges nor worry about its consequences. The emotional and social tumult that comes with it always provides filmmakers and actors with complex and often fiery material to work with. But because it is a social ill, it tends to be viewed through an illicit lens.

The very way these kinds of love affairs are defined speak for themselves. Adultery. Infidelity. Cheating. Marriage is a sacrament, hence anything that goes against it is cast as sinful and wanton; and so go its movie portrayals. But there are many people who don't seek to be unfaithful. A need may not be met; a mistake may have been made; a devoted partner may be far far away. The heart has its reasons.

I can think of only a handful of movies which thoughtfully look into these matters of the heart. Pictures like Bud Yorkin's Twice in a Lifetime, Clint Eastwood's The Bridges of Madison County, Adrian Lyne's Unfaithful, and Sofia Coppola's Lost In Translation are some of the most recent. But one pioneer stands out as the archetype of the extramarital love affair: David Lean's Brief Encounter.

When one thinks of David Lean, small scale and simplicity are not what come to mind, but his vision here is as simple as its title implies. A housewife and a doctor, both married to their partners, meet at a train station by chance. And somehow, they meet again. And again. And again. Their relationship unfolds as a recollection by Laura (Celia Johnson), the housewife, as she narrates how she and Dr. Alec Harvey (Trevor Howard of The Third Man) came to be, and came to an end.

Though it seems to be set in Britain circa World War II, the film's time and place can readily be interchanged with any time period, preferably in the "noir-ish" world where trench-coats and dimly lit street lights were the norm. The decision to film at a train station is a masterstroke, as the fleeting time to catch the last train heightens the immediacy of their longings, as well as the satisfaction of their meetings. It also doesn't hurt when steam and light projects a heavenly dream-like state in key emotional moments.

Though black and white was a standard filmmaking style during World War II, its importance here film cannot be overstated. The film's thematic simplicity, combined with its genius locale, and brave pioneering, requires it to be immortalized, which B&W readily provides. And to call the picture brave is an understatement, considering its conservative context. The film was controversial enough that it was initially banned in Ireland, since it portrayed adultery in a sympathetic light. Laura's final decision to stay with her family can seemed contrived or convenient for some, but it surely might have been a relief for those in its day.

With Celia Johnson anchoring the film we listen to her plight, seeing how ordinary occurrences impossible to protect against could lead to her to love a handsome doctor. Coinciding train schedules. A busy restaurant with one seat left. A bad musician. A love for the movies. Both tied to routine. Both with the responsibilities of parenthood. A grit in her eye. Right places. Right times.

Though Alec and Laura are the film's focus, Lean also shows his gift of presenting unforgettable characters, most notably the naughty but affectionate stationmaster Albert (Stanley Holloway), and genteel shop lady Myrtle (Joyce Carey). They counterbalance Alec and Laura's pair in two notable ways; as comic relief to the serious considerations that surround the main pair; and as a shift in class consciousness. The author Frances Gray argues that the film shows this disparity in that the working class (Albert and Myrtle) is bereft of scrutiny when it comes to adultery as compared to the middle class (Alec and Laura), which in British society of the time, was considered to its moral backbone. It shows how Albert and Myrtle readily enjoy each other's company, and are more comfortable in their skins, whereas Alec and Laura have to find ways to explain themselves.

What I love about the film is that its "cheaters" aren't portrayed as malicious or salacious. Their feelings are real and important to them and they attempt to deal with its dilemmas. Marriage takes a lot of work, and works better when its principals are happy. Alec and Laura may have thought they were happy, but if they were, why are they seeking what is missing in each other? You have to admire a film daring to take that on, when common wisdom dictated being content with the status quo was healthy and enough.

There are however some aspects to the movie that can feel awkward for today's viewers. The acting is expertly done, but pre-Brando, which can feel mannered. Its narration can seem thick and over-explanatory, though this could be due to budget constraints in wartime. Kissing can be distracting (but cute) because of its build-up and sudden completion, but that's how sexual tension was released on film in those days. Its dialogue is brisk, making it easy to miss at times (you could say the same for CASABLANCA, but if you get into its rhythms, it works). Star-crossed conversations can sound quite unrealistic compared to today's writing. Yet, they are still serious, heartfelt, and never done for laughs, as if the words were written to reach out to the audience as a cry for help. Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard deliver these lines without doubt nor hesitation, Johnson particularly (the role earned her an Oscar nomination) earning our sympathy and respect with every closeup.

It's refreshing to find a classic romance without meet-cutes and pathetic attempts to be clever, with two adults who know what is happening to them, feeling passion which they may have thought was lost for good. Both know their undertaking is unwise and know, within their realities, what needs to be done. But that doesn't mean what they feel isn't shared, precious, and true. With Brief Encounter, David Lean (who earned his first Oscar nomination for this picture) shows his growing directorial gifts on route to his epic mastery of the movies and bravely deals with love that is frowned upon. It is courageous, sincere, and incredibly romantic.

Post World War II British Cinema was one of the richest periods in film history. Finally free from budget and stylistic constraints saddled during wartime, some of the greatest filmmaking talent the filmdom had arisen. John and Roy Boulting, David Lean, Laurence Olivier, and Carol Reed were just a few of the notables whose directorial prowess had struck the scene. But a pair which was the period's most prolific was Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger; The Archers.

Their imprint on British Cinema is almost without peer, and their influence on filmmakers around the world is felt even today, inspiring such directors as George Romero, Francis Ford Coppola, and Martin Scorsese. Though both Powell and Pressburger were credited with the direction of their films, it was Powell who was truly at the helm. In his later years, he and Scorsese became quite close, with Scorsese becoming his most ardent enthusiast and eventual protégé (It was Powell who advised Scorsese why RAGING BULL ought to be in Black & White).

Swedish film historian Fredrik Gustafsson describes Powell's work in post-WW2 as having a quality of "extravagant dreamlike passion." One such example is their 1947 production of BLACK NARCISSUS, a movie which propelled Deborah Kerr to stardom and featured a burgeoning Jean Simmons. Watching it for the first time made me understand the techniques and inspirations imprinted in many of Scorsese's own masterpieces.

The film tells the story of a group of Anglican nuns who assigned to a remote palace near the Himalayas. Once there, they are tasked to form a school and hospital to develop and convert the indigenous Indian township. The group is headed by Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr), the youngest Sister Superior of her order. There, she is to work with the handsome local British agent named Dean (David Farrar), who has lived with the locals for some time and is skeptical of any efforts to 'modernize' them. Dean's charms seem to have some effect on Sister Clodagh, but they also ignite the buried passions of Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron) who becomes increasingly jealous of her superior.

This emotional conflict is one of many that eats away at nearly all of the film's characters. Clodagh's relationship with Dean reminds her of her ill-fated longings for a former friend. Ruth, who was emotionally disturbed even before joining the expedition seems to become completely unhinged once Dean shows her an act of kindness which she might have been seeking for so long. And Dean himself, a charming cynic who has seen-it-all, appears to surprise himself with how much he grows to care and admire Sister Clodagh's resolve, however misplaced it may be.

The other nuns aren't free of doubt. Local practices and beliefs undermine their deeds. Acts of compassion are misinterpreted and distrusted. Goals aren't met and pressures grow. Their inner turmoil is exacerbated by extreme conditions and isolation. The world seems against them all, symbolized by a budding seduction: a vain young General(Sabu) eager to learn the "learned" Christian ways, tempted by the lower caste beauty Kanchi (Jean Simmons). It's holiness against the libido, civility against the wild, control vs. desire.

This burning, fervent, internal strife, builds continuously towards the film's almost gothic climax. To see the film progress from cold and indifferent to brooding and almost supernatural shows Powell's mastery of tone. He depicts the nuns' mountain enclave as an ashen and distant; colorless as the sisterhood's singular devotion to their vocation. The local Indian populace is backdropped with vibrant color, looking more natural and lively. But it is in the second half of the film where Powell's use of Technicolor is stunning. The introduction of the more vibrant hues dominate the film. The use of red is feverish and is as effective and foreboding as Nicholas Roeg's DON'T LOOK NOW. Even the absence of color and use of shadows serves a purpose that would make any horror movie lover proud, once Sister Clodagh and Sister Ruth have their final face-off.

It is Clodagh and Ruth who come to embody the film's mesmerizing conflict, becoming mirror images; extremes of human nature. Powell uses close-ups of both players to reveal Clodagh's uncertainty and Ruth's blind wantonness. Many have noted Kathleen Byron's portrayal of Ruth as over the top, but it never seems out of line with the film's mood, perhaps because her hostility feel right in sync with that of her environment's. The story's feel is remarkably consistent if not completely realistic.

These traits are the very essence of many of Martin Scorsese's masterpieces: the emotional if not physical violence which drives his characters to do what they do. To see them in Michael Powell's work provides a moment of clarity. Film critic Dave Kehr suggests that BLACK NARCISSUS should be taken with the historical context of Britain bidding farewell to their fading empire, and indeed that is an interesting point of view. But I like to view it as a film ahead of its time, daring enough to look puritanical figures that are in truth as frail as anyone; confronting their demons and the burdens of reality. It has all of the three central conflicts every story should have, man against the world, man against man, and man against himself.

P.S. The film's title comes from a British perfume which the young General uses. It's scent taken from a flower, named after a Greek mythological youth of the same name, who died of his own vanity.

Ever since I first saw 2001: A Space Odyssey, films that dwell on man and his place in the universe, are of great importance to me. I've always admired films that dealt with the human condition, but Stanley Kubrick's science fiction masterpiece, made me realize how insignificant human matters are in the face of creation. Dr. Manhattan describes it best in WATCHMEN, "... the existence of life is a highly overrated phenomenon."

Yet here we are, trying to survive in a speck of a solar system, with only a few who are aware of our inconsequence. It's those people who ask, will we continue to move on, and become more conscious of reality's workings? Will our creations, which are now beginning to achieve the first semblances or representations of human logic, further us or outlive us? These are questions that fascinate me most.

The noughties were a decade that seemed to focus on our decline. War, terrorism, environmental degradation, oppressive governance, and economic decline seemed to define the first 10 years of the 21st century, hardly close to what we were thinking of when the word 'future' was mentioned a few decades ago. This regression in human progress, has resulted in the focus of human regression in film. Vengeance was a major theme. Comedies which focused on male arrested development flourished, while those that dealt with women were further pushed into the background. And every so often a documentary would come out showing the consequences of man's dismissiveness towards his environment.

There were of course exceptions to the rule, but none more exceptional than WALL-E; a film marketed as a cute children's film, but with ambitions that couldn't have been more ground-breaking. It has a generosity and spirit that is rarely found among its contemporaries. It is futuristic, but relies on a classical style of filmmaking. Its prime characters are completely artificial, yet they achieve an emotional purity that New York Times film critic A.O. Scott perfectly describes as "Chaplinesque." It criticizes our mass consumerism, without telegraphing emotions, being cynical, or lecturing. And it stares fearlessly into the abyss of our near extinction, but leaves us feeling awash in powerful emotions of sweetness, warmth, and most importantly hope. It is one of the great cinematic achievements.

One of the film's obvious assets is its incredible use of special effects. The lighting, texture, and depth evident in the film's first few scenes of an abandoned city are breathtaking and strikingly realistic, thanks to famed cinematographers Roger Deakins (favorite of the Coen Brothers) and Dennis Muren (a collaborator of George Lucas, James Cameron, and Steven Spielberg). The level of detail is overwhelming but its display is restrained and disciplined. Different story locales aren't just shiny colorful new places as other animated films would practice. Each setting has a distinctive feel. 

Notice the depth of the deserted empty streets, colored in different shades of yellow and brown, only to show the distinctiveness of a plant Wall-e discovers for the first time. The shipyard where Wall-e and Eve introduce each other, which feels inhospitable, rusty and radioactive. Wall-e's home which has an affectionate Christmas-like decorative feel. The light, breezy atmosphere within the Axiom which seems to be perpetually clean, but not clinical. With this level of technical mastery, one could even argue that WALL-E was the best CGI film of its kind before AVATAR came along.

For a film set in the future, the film is a loving celebration of things past. It uses film clips from the 1969 musical "Hello Dolly!" Though considered a passable film by most, WALL-E uses it to touching effect. Through Dolly's songs and images, Wall-e realizes his solitary existence, and learns a very innocent notion of love. The film also uses Louis Armstrong's rendition of La Vie en Rose and an 80s pop-themed score to lovingly lens Wall-e's attempts to woo Eve.

In terms of style, pretty much the entire portion of the film where WALL-E is on screen could be treated as a silent film. Its filmmakers were required to watch Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin clips (and a little bit of Harry Lloyd) everyday for almost a year during film production. One can credit this mastery of body language to those films of old, but it's another thing entirely to translate narrative and human emotions to what are technically mechanical and electronic objects.

How would you make a trash compactor cute, nervous, or startled? Let alone curious, plucky, innocent and hopelessly in love? How would you make a shiny Apple-like egg-shaped robot seem excitable, irritable, brave, and sweetly amused? Wall-e and Eve have no lower limbs, no elbows, no mouths, no eyebrows to communicate what the story needs to say, and yet the film expresses their traits and feelings, effortlessly. Pixar seems to be saying you only need the eyes, maybe just one if you count MONSTERS, INC.

And when it comes to the embodiment of human qualities, their portrayal here achieves a basic yet powerful emotional integrity. How strangely wonderful that two machines, one a rust-bucket with tank treads for feet and binoculars for eyes, the other as shiny slick as an iPod, would convey such unique personalities, such unforced, unaffected nobility, and feel so perfect for each other. I can't tell you how amazed I was when I was praying for Eve to revive Wall-e after a seemingly hopeless situation. And even more amazed by how I was moved to tears when the final love song was played, seeing both of them finally hold hands. Despite WALL-E's obvious themes of ecological destruction and mass consumerism, its distinguishing human characteristics allow it to be one of the sweetest love stories of the past few years.

What I found even more poignant was Wall-e's apparent fascination with the remnants of humanity's creations. He collects different objects and devices, puzzled by their functions and purpose. Whether or not he is aware that he himself is a product of human ingenuity, it is touching nonetheless to know that he values what we have created, since we ourselves have lost sight of what we have achieved, how far we've come, and what potentials we still have unrealized.

The film also has moments of stylistic brilliance worth mentioning. It's opening sequence of the vast majesty of space, played alongside Michael's Crawford's "Put on Your Sunday Clothes" inspires a sense of discovery and wonder. And yet when panning to the bleak and filthy desolation of Earth filled with skyscrapers of trash and smoggy mists, the film seems to say, "What a waste we've made, and what a waste we have been." Its moments were Wall-e touches the rings of Saturn, or his "flight dance" with Eve outside the Axiom, provides that rare combination of beauty and emotional satisfaction. The film's musical score, composed by the always excellent Thomas Newman, is alive, distinctive and expressive, providing a sense of futuristic naivete and wonderment.  And the film's end credits, with an inspiring Peter Gabriel, are exquisite, presenting man's future history, working to restore what he destroyed with the help of his sentient creations, all told through Paleolithic, Impressionist, and Video game art styles. It's final image of Wall-e and Eve looking at a shoe-grown tree, speaks on so many levels as to what man can do.

How Andrew Stanton, director of FINDING NEMO (probably the first great CGI animated film of the 21st century) brought all of this together, is nothing short of a miracle. His work here is one of the great feats of film direction.

WALL-E is by no means a perfect movie. At times it becomes too cute and indulgent. But it earns the right to do so, because of how it tells its story, and by how much it cares for its characters. And besides, once you've seen its indulgences, what indulgences they are! I've heard of complaints of scientific accuracy and boredom in the film's first hour. Of the former I can say that some liberties have to be taken at the expense of realism to tell a more effective story (sometimes it works and sometimes not). As for the latter, that worries me. Since the advent of sound in film, many filmmakers tend to rely too much on dialogue for exposition. If audiences do not know how what his happening or cannot hold attention in a movie because nothing is being told to them, then we are losing part of our humanity.

Humanity. You see that word a lot in this review. Even though the film doesn't involve people per se, it has nothing else on its mind. There are other great films that show what we are losing, such as A.I., AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH, CHILDREN OF MEN. But WALL-E, perhaps because of animation's very nature of being able to filter through the very basics of human characteristics and emotion, manages to enhance the significance of our very end. Imagine that. Two human creations, through their own awareness, use the best of human traits, such as bravery, love, and commitment, to save us from ourselves.

When Stanley Kubrick gave his story A.I. for Steven Spielberg to direct. Perhaps he felt there was hope for us yet. Maybe he didn't know how to portray it in a humane sensibility the way Spielberg skillfully does. What I felt Kubrick was implying in that film was that humans won't make it, but our creations will carry the best of humanity forward, somehow being a more perfect blend of intellect and emotion. 

A.I. and WALL-E both involve robots living in a world where man has left the Earth. The former was about the end of man and what comes next. WALL-E is more hopeful saying, we'll be here, and we'll see what comes next.

With that I leave the film's final lyrics. Though they sing about love, because of Wall-E's and Eve's exploits, they turn into something else, as WALL-E ends with final images of a devastated Earth finally growing vegetation, with a returned human race, and the great unknown that lies ahead.

And that is all, that love's about

And we'll recall, when time runs out

That it only, took a moment

To be loved, a whole life long