Duck! Duck! Cinemalaya 14 is Coming!

Uh oh! It is that time of the year again. I remember taking a break from work last year just to catch the films from last year's Cinemalaya. It used to be the granddaddy of film making ingenuity. Now many film entries are shoddy, pretentious and confoundingly contemptuous.

Imagine my surprise when the worst of it, Jose Israel Laban's "Baconaua" won major awards for Jury Prize and (oh God, don't let me vomit!) BEST CINEMATOGRAPHY in a film where half the time you could hardly see anything on screen! Que Horror indeed!

Which made me wonder! What kind of jurors would consider "Baconaua" first-rate film making? Something was amiss. Maybe they skipped their breakfast, lunch and dinner when they deliberated? Baka na hypoglycemia? Baka na change is scamming?
The pervading social discomfiture and political ineptitude have become so contagious.

There's no going around the fact that Baconaua was cinematic garbage - from the storytelling to its execution. So was that manipulative, unforgivably trashy "Bagahe"; it made my skin crawl. Well, most of the films in it, except "Kiko Boksingero". So help me God!

I hope it's a better viewing experience this year, and not a waste of my effort, time and money! Otherwise I will send Laurice Guillen a bill to cover for the days I had to miss work.



Scary!



#cinemalaya2018

That Thing Called Annoying : Sigrid Andrea Bernardo's "Mr. & Mrs. Cruz"

There’s a discernable formula in the narrative structure of Sigrid Andrea Bernardo’s “Mr. & Mrs. Cruz”, the director’s follow-up to the sleeper hit “Kita Kita” starring Alessandra de Rossi and Empoy Marquez. These elements include travelogue, wistful or contemplative scenes of regretful longing, dreamy photography, melancholic theme song and a cyclical ruminative issue that consumes the protagonists.

We witness similar elements in movies like Antoinette Jadaone’s “That Thing Called Tadhana”, Sigrid Andrea Bernardo’s “Kita Kita”, Ice Idanan’s “Sakaling Hindi Makarating”, Veronica Velasco’s “Dear Other Self”, Antoinette Jadaone’s “Love You to the Stars and Back” and “Relaks, It’s Just Pag Ibig” (co-directed with Irene Villamor) and, to some extent, even Paul Soriano’s “Siargao”. The characters navigate territories unfamiliar to them in the hope that they find their soul in the backwaters of seeming isolation. Yes, it’s a lot of Jadaones in the list which suggests Jadaone’s contribution to the genre.

I was looking forward to watching “Mr. & Mrs. Cruz” and listen to Carl Guevarra and Nicole Omillo’s melancholic song “Istorya” in the context of a story. After all, Alessandra de Rossi and KZ Tandingan’s separate versions of “Two Less Lonely People in the World” were contributory to the enduring impression taken away by the audience as they left the cinema.

Two strangers meet while on holiday in Palawan. After being mistaken as a couple, they inadvertently find themselves brought closer by circumstance. They end up traveling together and, in the process, discover themselves.

Gela (Ryza Cenon) is trying to forgive herself after calling off her wedding, while Raffy (JC Santos) is still grieving after being abandoned by her bride at the altar. The odds of them meeting up are one for cinematic magic, but it fizzles as soon as both of them start prattling endlessly about insignificant topics.

In the story, they chat (and we wince) about first impressions, re-reading classics like Romeo and Juliet; bird saliva and nido soup, tattoos about freedom, Facebook versus Instagram; eating tamilok (those edible mangrove worms); finding Nemo and getting found by Dora; having children, etc.

In one scene, Raffy and Gela agree that "patience is a virtue", then they'd laughed like it was the funniest thing since Mayon moved to Naga! They'd drop lines that made my skin crawl, then slap themselves silly with, "Uyyy". They were inexplicably amused with themselves and you wonder why!

These topics hop around randomly like a schizophrenic patient seized by "flight of ideas". I was simply displeased or offended... or both!

This style of storytelling is similar to Richard Linklater's gabfest, the "Before Sunrise" trilogy. These films define their characters by the arguments they make and discussions they present, particularly when they have something significant to say about the state of things. Such was the case of "Tadhana", which was effusively delectable. When Mace (Angelica Panganiban) and Anthony (JM de Guzman) talked about things, they mold their character. We learn more about them. We’re caught up in their constant banter and engagement. They were charming. We wanted to follow their misadventures! In "Mr. & Mrs. Cruz", however, the characters were reduced to vacuous party crashers that ultimately deserved each other. Or not. I didn't care! Come on. Four years after being jilted and you haven’t moved on? You’re still traveling until “maubos ang pera ko”? How hopelessly unstimulating. There’s a better adjective I’d rather use that sounds like “loser”.

Self Discovery Romcoms

Aside from the relentless barrage of senseless prattle, there are aggravating scenes that made the film so annoying, not the least of which was having Gela puke - 3 or 4 times – all over Raffy. As if that scene wasn’t enough, Gela then licks and gobbles up her own vomitus while Raffy stares at his roommate with fascination. What part of this scene is vaguely romantic? Sagot! There goes romcom’s descent to despicability.

I vividly remember that lingering feeling last year after having watched Jason Paul Laxamana’s “100 Tula Para Kay Stella”. The comparison with "Mr. & Mrs. Cruz" is telling. Although “Tula” was more coming-of-age drama than romcom, Stella’s story left you languishing in a certain state of unbridled sadness; one that you wanted to embrace. In “Mr. & Mrs. Cruz”, however, this left me in a state of repulsion.

#mrandmrscruz

Jigz Recto's "Binatilyo" - A Caterwauling Fete (An Unpublished Post from 2012)

Vintage Blush? Well, this is an article we weren't able to publish for some reason, but this had an original post date of November 8, 2012 - 4 long years ago. It had Jao Mapa too. It was one of those pink films that flourished that time. I am sure some of the followers of this blog have missed the spunk and irreverence we've dedicated towards the exploitation and vapid film-making that proliferated back then. I didn't really care about the associated metrics, but when each post was being read by between 8,000 and 18,000 people, you realize that you must have done something right. After all, this is a text-heavy blogsite so I know that my readers aren't illiterates. They also have impeccable taste. Tee hee. So here goes.

STORY

TJ (Norris John) is infatuated with his classmate Karla (Lili Montelibano). But TJ isn't the school’s most popular student. In fact, he gets brickbats for his father Dading’s (Jao Mapa) effete ways: “malamya, malambot, kumekendeng”. A few days before Karla’s birthday, TJ gets a reprieve from Karla’s snootiness. If TJ can provide her with a new smart phone - as gift, of course - for her birthday, then he’s welcome to court her! Quite the opportunist, isn't she? So what’s a guy to do? His very own cell phone is ten years past its prime and held together by an adhesive.

At home, he badgers his impoverished, albeit hard-working parents for the fashionable gadget. Truth to tell, TJ’s foible is a vice his family can’t afford. But his attentive and persevering father works even harder and appropriates a good chunk of his earning, much to the consternation of TJ's mom  Elma (Angela Ruiz). The boy is getting impatient because Karla’s birthday is close by. TJ turns to his best friend (Winston de Dios, “Sulot“, “Rigodon”) who moonlights as an exotic dancer and hustler. Lulu (Lorraine Lopez), TJ’s classmate and overt admirer, is only too happy with this development. She wants a piece of TJ’s inches as much as she enjoys his best friend’s. Little did TJ realize that Lulu is a nefarious henchman’s girlfriend. This gets TJ into trouble.  

Karla’s birthday comes, but Dading’s hidden stash is confiscated by his wife. What’s a father to do? Will TJ ever find the acceptance from Karla? Will there be enough cellphones in the Philippines in time for the opportunist's birthday? I shiver.

TJ (Norris John) despises his father.

Director Jigz Recto once again weaves another unctuous and exceedingly mawkish mixbag of melodrama and Pink-leaning narrative. “Binatilyo” is, in fact, one of the most painful films to watch, reminiscent of the protracted scenes from “Dulas” and “Kasalo”, both directed by the same director.  These films stretch the dramatic scenes much longer than you can say "pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis". 

Just when you thought the protracted aria has been delivered, the emotive gravity resumes again with another set of caterwauling that burrows deep inside your head. I have been sensitized to these cinematic punishments, but this flick has tested my patience. I was this close to walking out. 

Clueless directors believe that they could milk their dramatic tableau by expanding their dramatic scenes. This isn't a case of “the longer, the better”, or is it? Norris, who isn't a tall guy, would surely not agree either. The boyish actor works hard and though he succeeds to personify the spoiled rotten juvenile, his characterization is hobbled by the non-expository ethos of his cinematic persona. It’s hard to swallow how a once-loving son has transmogrified into this insensitive brat. 

Elma and son TJ (Angela Ruiz and Norris John)

DEUS EX MACHINA

It’s quite apparent that the ministrations fueling the narrative are meant as deus ex machina. The inclusion of Lulu’s gun-toting beau and TJ’s best friend is perplexing. When prodigal TJ comes home, he learns that his father died looking for him (TJ saw him in a gay bar and thought that his father has come out of the closet when, in fact, he was there to work as a waiter so he could earn more money to buy a new phone for his son). He further learns of his mother’s ornery past: When she got pregnant, his boyfriend ditched her. Kind-hearted Dading comes to the rescue and assumes the responsibility as husband and father. This he did despite being as queer as a three dollar bill, so to speak.

After Elma’s confession, TJ gets a 30-minute crying spell. It was night time. The next day, he visits his father’s grave and another lachrymose caterwauling arises. You wonder where prodigal TJ went that he didn't even catch the loooong wake – and the burial. Did he maybe peddle his flesh overseas? Like Okinawa or Antananarivo, maybe? But he was just enjoying a staycation with his classmate. Why wasn't he told? But the most blatant antagony is the crux that fuels the story: What guy in his right mind would purchase a smart phone for a pompous girl who isn't even his girl friend yet? The story is riddled with holes the size of the supermoon.

The Pink element appears when, one night, a drunk TJ gives Winston’s a visit who then “attends” to his friend's drunken stupor, undressing him and giving him a diligent, thorough, and refreshing sponge bath. Ayayay pag-ibig, coos Ara Mina. What are friends for, debah? By sunrise, TJ finds himself glisteningly speckless and exfoliated. 

“Binatilyo” is one of the most excruciating flicks I’ve seen this year. It’s a “buwis buhay” experience. Someone deserves to be tied on a tree teeming with fire ants. Either that - or he deserves to be shipped somewhere where transport only comes once every 50 years. No... make it 70!

TJ daydreams of Karla (above) then rollings in the hay with Lulu.

Gay husband Dading and wife Elma.

Lulu

Winston de Dios and Norris John

Norris John

Norris John

Note:

Read our feature Cinema Bravo and Web Criticism? :
- http://makemeblush2.blogspot.com/2016/10/cinema-bravo-film-criticisms-execrable.html


#pinkfilm   #binatilyo  #norrisjohn   #jaomapa

Cinema Bravo - Film Criticism's Execrable Contributions From the Dubious Fringes

QCinema, fresh from its admirably curated staging of the festival this year, recently held a forum last October 21 discussing the "Wide Wild World of Web Criticism" spotlighting film bloggers and critics. In conjunction with this discourse and all other scary things this season, I find it appropriate to share my take on this issue. I had been writing about the Philippine movies since 2008. Though I've pretty much "retired" from active writing, this however doesn't mean that I have stopped watching movies. In fact, the last 4 months have been quite hectic. There's been a steady stream of film festivals staged from July this year. Moreover, I even watch most of the commercial movies, foreign and local, being shown throughout the metropolis! I am not complaining, but these festivals can get seriously exhausting. But I am digressing. The topic of the month is web criticism in the Philippines.

A few days ago, someone pointed out a certain review from a blog called "Cinema Bravo" and ranted about its content. So I had to check it out for myself. What do I find? The most awkward use of the English language written in all its mediocre glory! Okay, let me spotlight a review of Fede Alvarez's "Don't Breathe", published September 5 in the aforementioned blogsite. 

https://cinemabravo.com/2016/09/05/movie-review-dont-breathe-2016/

After a slew of copy-paste introductions, the review follows:

"Its beginning sufficiently introduces our heroes (or antiheroes) and gives a quick view of their social status. The heist is quite a jackpot and each of the trio is intrigued on how they can get away with the crime as usual."

Consider those two sentences alone and you will find diction gaffes, not the least of which is a rundown of spine-tingling statements that defy comprehension: "Its beginning ... gives a quick view of their social status" Really? Then he goes on saying , "The heist is quite a jackpot..." Is he even talking about the same movie this time? He closes his train of thought with second guessing: "The trio is intrigued." His use of words is, at best, fragmented. Awkward! 

         "The heist is quite a jackpot."

As if these weren't enough, he continues: "There is admirable craft in the way Alvarez tenders horror in this age of the haunting and possession as typical themes of the genre. The old blind man’s house becomes a haunted house filled with a heavy atmosphere of fright that is effectively showcased through a delightful command of sound." Ano daw?! 

"Admirable craft? Tenders horror? Delightful command of sound?" I had a difficult time trying to wash down what he struggles to say. He closes this with a puke-inducing "and (it's) never for those who can’t catch their breath." Nga naman. In my head, I see images of anoxic and cyanotic patients reeling from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease instead of the compelling suspense thriller that Cinema Bravo is straining to talk about. Delightful command of sound, say again? Jeez. The film is a suspense/thriller so using "delightful" in this context is as alien as describing Jose Nadela's "Pilapil" or Joel Lamangan's "That Thing Called Tanga Na" a sublime piece of cinema.

          "And (it's) never for those 
      who can't catch their breath."

The same writer talks about Jason Paul Laxamana's "Mercury is Mine": "The chemistry exuded by their relationship goes way beyond strangers, family, or even lovers." What?! Are we talking psychic chemistry here? He further notes, "It is all about the new discoveries that let them become conscious of what they want and what they need in life." Surely there's an easier way of writing that. Don't you think? How does he describe Topel Lee's cinematography? "It seeps into memory..." whatever the heck it means. Are we in the subject of filter papers? Maybe Topel Lee's camera work is porous? Seeps? Porous? Seeps? Get it? ;- ) Dock and take cover, puh-leez! 

        "(Topel Lee's cinematography) 
             seeps into memory."

With a mere 440-character review, how can anyone churn out an atrociously hideous output? Imagine if this were an earnest 2,500-character piece. I shiver.

In his "Morgan" review, he has this to say: "Morgan’s teenager look does not go near that of a 5-year-old. Donning a fierce disposition and with a pair of eyes covered in mystery, it leaves a frightening appearance which serves as a clear indication of what is to expect: something bloody, something terrible, something very familiar and Frankenstein-esque." Didn't I say verbal diarrhea? These pretentious reviews really defy coherence. 

     "... which serves as a clear indication 
                of what is to expect..."

I am more of a Libby Waxman-Gelner in temperament and style. But I look up to legendary film critic Pauline Kael who pioneered the entire aesthetic of film criticism. In her hands, the medium evolved into an art form. Unfortunately, through the years, web criticism has, at some point, replaced this expertise with "amateurs, fanboys, and obscurantists". It is of course easy to censure print traditionalists of Luddittism. After all, the millennium has brought with it new technology that everyone must live with and adjust to, including taking in a modicum of tolerance to a more relaxed use of language. Personally, this is where I draw the line. If a writer is uncomfortable using the medium, by all means, shift to that which comes naturally. Otherwise, you'd end up with stilted statements and factitious exposition. Such is the case of Cinema Bravo's so-called reviews. A lot of verbal diarrhea that makes no sense.

Michael S. Roth, President of a U.S. university, once wrote in the New York Times, arguing that a big reason people are critical, is to show that "you will not be easily fooled", and that it is a sign of sophistication. But who really decides which works are beyond questioning? Surely, a prerequisite should be the ability to describe, argue and insinuate issues and values within a film. 

In film criticism, the "man who goes to the movies" becomes a trusted arbiter of what cultural artifacts are worth investigating, investing in — but he should then be able to express himself clearly. Other than clarity and truth to the medium, I reckon there are no true concrete standards in modern web criticism. But this doesn't mean, just any Tom, Dick and Jane can be valid "film critics". One might get accused of ultracrepidarianism. You don't want that. Believe me it is a virulent affliction. 

NO BUSINESS WRITING

The point of this piece is that, these days, web criticism is a dime a dozen. A lot of these web pages are pure hogwash started by dreamers who have no business writing, to begin with. They subscribe to the delusion that starting a blog will readily turn them into overnight critics. Such overreaching ambition. What's worse, they're even showcased to participate in "Year's Best" list-making surveys - and I seriously cringe! Nginig! While it is indeed a free world, these people need reminding (for our sanity's sake). Besides, when inarticulate non-writers are turned into an epitome of perceived excellence, it dilutes the noble objective of these surveys - particularly when the respondents are of dubious competence. 

There are more productive ways of spending your waking hours particularly if writing isn't your forte. When you're not even articulate, you can always turn to the vernacular for a less painful experience. 

Mag-Tagalog na lang kasi, 'Teh! 

Stick to writing "features"... the ones easily copy-pasted from press releases. 

Otherwise, maybe you're better off in culinary, horticulture, macrame or ... hmmm... cross stitching? 

#careerchange #englishpamore

Cinema Bravo is single-handedly moderated by someone named JB  Estillore or Jonell Estillore who bafflingly boasts of about 570,000 likes; a head-scratcher in itself. How such execrable writing can gather that much "likes" is beyond me. Has this nation gone. errr... dull?

If I initially thought of this woeful web criticism as hilarious, I had to ultimately nurse a gargantuan headache. 

Now where's that extra-strength analgesic?!

Bradley Liew's "Singing in Graveyards" - Life Under Scrutiny

Scene opens. Sixty eight year old Pepe stands in front of a mirror naked. He's wrinkly all over, a roadkill of life lived as a silhouette of somebody else's greatness. As the story unravels, we realize that director Bradley Liew has a metaphor to tell. Pepe has been working as an impersonator of legendary rock star Joey Smith for 30 years. And his life goes under scrutiny as he struggles to make ends meet. He navigates his solitary existence playing gigs in clubs with an audience that mostly ignores him. His occasional visits to his married son (Ely Buendia) endures similar fate. He even pays struggling starlet Mercedes (Mercedes Cabral) to sleep "beside" him, but she refuses to be touched. Forget the cash; no way is she allowing him to touch her flesh. This scenario left me with a strange feeling of desolation. I couldn't help it.

"Singing in Graveyards" is an existential exposition that examines the value and dignity of life in the twilight years of a man's existence. When we're reduced to a pitiful and unwanted state, do we surrender to despair? It is admirable how the protagonist doesn't easily give up despite the overwhelming odds. Are we mere reflections of the greatness of others? Louisa May Alcott ("Little Women") once wrote that some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. Surely, Pepe has monopoly of the latter. In fact, Pepe's existence is a personification of Alcott's statement.

The film has several scenes that left me breathless, not the least of which was Pepe's visit to the graves of the rock star's former band mates (Sheron, Paolo and Eric of "The Jeeps"), as he implored on their souls to help him compose a love song. But even the dead have no answers for him. When Pepe is offered to open for the comeback concert of rock icon Joey Smith, he suddenly finds his deliverance, one that shall sum up how much his life is worth, 30 years later. 

In a scene that offered a slice of magic realism, the "real" rock star is set aflame inside his van while Pepe looks around the singer's posh house. It was the perfect time for Pepe to claim the life he deserved. He takes a chair by the roadside and sits contentedly, watching from the periphery.   

"Singing in Graveyards" is one of the year's best.   

Dan Villegas' "Always Be My Maybe" - Defining Relationships in Contemporary Society

In what could be one of the year’s most adorable cinematic turns, Arci Munoz plays Tintin, a makeup artist-cum-beauty vlogger who wears her heart on her sleeve. In online videos, she shares beauty tips and laces them with no-holds-barred stories about her heartache. But after getting spurned by her occasional lover (Victor Silayan) for another girl, Tintin breaks down in a video episode that went viral. Six months later, she meets a kindred soul Jake (Gerald Anderson) who himself is heartbroken. Their awkward meet-up turns into an engaging overnight gabfest that eventually settles into comfortable companionship. Have they conveniently friend-zoned their relationship? After all, they admit to not being attracted with each other. Or aren’t they?

Dan Villegas’s “Always Be My Maybe” delves into the mechanics of contemporary couplings through the unlikely friendship of two characters who are trying to pick up the pieces of their broken hearts after their respective relationships have failed. What’s instructive is the conflicting points of view on the different stages of hooking up. I am reminded of the situational dilemma in Cathy Garcia-Molina’s insightful “Unofficially Yours”. This could be its companion piece.

More than anything, the narrative is a precarious reflection of the current sexual mores that pervade in modern-day romance. While intercourse used to pretty much define a relationship (i.e. “definitions” are made before consummation), these days, such emotional scrutiny is taken into consideration post-coitally: did he cuddle, did she stay longer than necessary, was there discussion on the state of affairs? Permissive society has become the norm, instead of being the exception. I do have qualms about a few of the scenes. When Jake shows his studio to Tintin, asking her to pose for him, she offers to show her tattoo – and more, and in the process ends up shedding off all her clothes. So much for sensible and pragmatic cinematic heroines, right? As Jake would rationalize it, “sex is different from making love”, but such is the excuse of cads who just want their concupiscent catharsis.

Interestingly, the character of Jake seems too comfortably close to home for Gerald Anderson. Was the character written with him in mind? One would suspect because Anderson essays his role with sincerity and charm. Moreover, you could sense a morsel of danger in his dealings with Tintin. Is it the nature of “man” as the sexual creature that’s coming into the picture? Anderson is easily “pa-fall” without doing much. His ability to transcend this beyond the celluloid is impeccable. He would be remembered for this role. It doesn’t hurt that he has this easy, albeit complementary chemistry with Arci Munoz.

Munoz, on the other hand, hits the cinematic jackpot. She has triumphantly tempered her depiction of an acerbic heroine with just the right emotive concoction. I keep laughing every time I hear her complain about Valentines Day: “Sino bang nag-imbento nun… ipapatumba ko talaga!” 

If there ever was perfect characterization, hers would be the new gold standard. By this, I am saying that, after watching the film, it would be hard to picture another actress playing Tintin. Munoz absolutely disarms, you can’t help but root for her despite occasionally embarrassing choices. Munoz owned Tintin’s every candor, manner and style. She’s the modern-day Filipina who loves wholeheartedly - body, mind and soul. In her moments of belated epiphany, she laments, “Di ko alam, naibigay ko na pala ang lahat.” Sometimes, loving isn’t counting how much you’ve shared of yourself. We sometimes throw caution to the wind so we can love without restriction, beyond fences and borders. But in this dilemma, there is a cautionary tale. Emotional investments, like finances, don’t always make great returns. When they do, we’d all be in the moon for it. Thus I am tempted to submit this as specimen for any sociological study concerning norms of contemporary relationship. It isn't exhaustive but it is a valid physiognomy of the subject.  

Director Dan Villegas succeeds to spin a discerning yarn that more than entertains. The script bristles with fresh and astute observations about life and relationships in modern society. The pace is brisk and snappy; the cinematic palette clean, the music unobtrusive. The supporting characters (Jane Oineza, Ricci Chan, Cacai Bautista, Victor Silayan) are a delightful coterie of meme-spewing souls you’d want them on your side when life begrudges you of a few smiles. The movie is funny, provocative, sexy, and current. If cinema makes you re-examine your relationships, then it would be the worthy medium for your time and patronage. “Always Be My Baby” is solid entertainment and should not be missed.       

TV Series: "NY Med" - Real Life Heroics as Addictive Entertainment Fodder

A bulky guy is rushed to the E.R. due to an excruciating genital pain. His penis has been engorged for 12 hours - a condition called "Priapism" - because he took Cialis (tadalafil, a Viagra-like drug indicated for erectile dysfunction) the night before. He was accompanied by a guy whom he met at a bar. And the staff needs to drain blood from his genitals to relieve him of the pain. Will he endure the anesthesia?

A man who has been waiting for a "liver donor" for 8 months finally gets a donor two days before his daughter's wedding. "Am I ready? No, I am not," he says and continues, "Am I prepared? Yes, I am." But he just wants to dance with his daughter before he undergoes the delicate operation. His situation then becomes iffy. While on the O.R. table waiting for his liver "in transit", the surgical team gets a belated bad news: that the donor liver has a cyst and needs to be tested for malignancy first - before the transplant could proceed. But his chest wall has already been opened up and ready for the new organ. Will the patient get his new liver before dying from persistent cholangitis?

A former Desert Storm soldier is waiting for a "heart donor" after being diagnosed with heart failure 3 years ago. But a few hours after his sedation, the transplant team learns that "one of the branches of the pulmonary artery" is injured, thus the inevitable cancellation of the procedure. The patient wakes up without a "new heart" - and has to wait again for a new donor. Here's the catch - the patient is gay and is "HIV-positive". It turns out that such cases actually prove to be good transplant candidates. Why? "Because they are compliant patients". "He's not going to die of AIDS," the doctor assures his family, "but from a failing heart." Will he get a new heart?

These are some of the gripping real-life scenarios featured in "NY Med", a medical reality TV series that premiered on ABC 2 years ago. Unlike most medical dramas, the scenes are authentic and unscripted. The series follows the medical staff and the patients of New York's Columbia Medical Center, Weill Cornell and Lutheran Medical Center. There are no sugar-coatings here. Cameras gain all-access pass to the emergency room, the wards and the operating room. How they are able to acquire permission of the people involved is nothing short of spectacular. After all, some of these snippets contain a lot of emotional baggage (which makes situations hard to manipulate) and personal issues. Moreover, ethics, foresight and discretion will play heavily into what gets shown.

There are poignant moments of utter heart-wrenching drama. The "stories" presented are never sententious nor boring. There's a sense of urgency, of either hope or hopelessness, and of empathy. Before long,  you realize that you've gotten addicted to the series because it candidly offers insight into the medical field - a field concerned with prolonging lives, alleviating pain and caring for the sick.

If you think that good-looking doctors and nurses in the real world are a rare lot, this series will change all that. Tricky situations become a tad tolerable - and more watchable - when there are eye candies around. Season 2 was shown last June. I am eagerly waiting for a copy.

A surgical resident  whose tenacious as she's beautiful. 

A well loved surgeon who undergoes colonoscopy himself to rule out malignant polyps.

A pretty nurse who gets asked for a date by one of her patients.

Rod M. Ortega's "The Firefighters: The Unsung Heroes"

Rod M. Ortega's "The Firefighters: The Unsung Heroes" follows the story of Santi (Jeric Raval) an obedient boy of Abuyog, Sorsogon who grows up from a simple family. At breakfast, he gets a reminder from his morose-looking mother saying, "The family that prays together stays together." I got misty-eyed from such sentiment. We see him chop wood and fetch water. We also see teenage Santi (Paolo Gumabao) loitering the beach with his girl friend (Nicole Gee), just like a normal young man.

One day, Santi witnesses three girls drown from what appears to be the shallow waters of a polluted beach (they sniffed the air apparently, and lost their ability to swim; isn't that tragic?) He charges into the water fully clothed (long sleeved sweat shirt and jeans) - just like a hero should - and tries hard to save them. All three girls drown anyway. It's the thought that counts, debah?

But the incident has scarred him for life that from here on, he shall save drowning girls - by enrolling as a police man at the Philippine National Police Academy (PNPA)! Save drowning girls = police! Not as a lifeguard nor a doctor, but a police officer. Get nyo? Fate takes him to the fire brigade where he eventually rises from the ranks, despite conniving nemesis Brando (Jethro Ramirez). He hurts himself during one of their operations while trying to save the life of a guy trapped inside a burning building. But his wife (Hanni Miller) is constantly beside him despite occasional marital conflicts. End.

If there ever was a contest for film making cluelessness, this would be among the finalists. The film is a curmudgeon of genre, and doesn't quite settle into one, simply because its director just doesn't have the facility to do so. When the heavens distributed talent for story telling, Ortega must have fallen asleep. He throws a lot of random scenes together, and prays to the heavens that they organically transform into a coherent story. Wishful thinking, of course. This, it turns out, is one cinematic mess. It's hilarious without meaning to. And in the general sense, annoying for wasting precious time and money. I had to travel far to be fed garbage. It's nothing short of deplorable.

The narrative composition is one big mystery. There are classroom scenes of a boy reciting a gag-inducing poem ("Ang Guro") about a teacher called Mrs. Catapia that concluded with something like, "Hindi lang siya mabait, maganda pa. Ang suwerte ng mister nya." Then the teacher's husband is shown with a wide grin, peeping from the classroom window. Huh? A group of children grilling corn would alternately deliver lines with no rhyme or reason, my niece had better school programs in school, and I didn't have to pay P200 to watch them.

From out of the blue, Joseph Bacareza, head honcho of the Fire National Training Institute (FNTI) suddenly discusses what the institute is all about. I was of course disoriented by Bacareza's sudden appearance because I wasn't there to learn about the darn institute. Then random footages of the Philippine National Police Academy (PNPA) appear. Cadets perform their exhibitional gun drills. This then shifts to a fire prevention training where an instructor is teaching students about clove hitch knot. If you aren't perplexed by this confounding turn events, hang on to your knickers, there's more.

SLIDE SHOW

A powerpoint presentation follows. Yup, a slide show. What is fire? What are its 3 stages? What are the modes of heat transfer? Was I in the right venue? Or was this really a tutorial on fire prevention more than a cinematic event? Ask director Rod Ortega. He must have an idea. The plot returns to Jeric Raval training at the fire institute. While everyone on training is bald, Raval sports a full head of hair replete with his characteristic squint and tough-guy grimace.

Cut to Raval courting his new girl friend who replies with an ecstatic, "Yes na yes na - basta pakakasalan mo ako ha?" He was just asking her to be his girl friend, mind you. The film shifts again to a commercial about "Textfire" and the modern facilities acquired by the organization, including a 10-second feature about a volunteer named Gerry Chua. Someone is shooting blanks in all directions. But wait, whatever happened to Santi?

Santi, now a successful fire chief, complete with Dolphy-and-Panchito channeling bodyguards (comedian Kuhol and another poor soul), returns to visit his hometown in Sorsogon. He donates a complete set of musical instruments for his band, "Santiago Serenade and Friends" whose songs are being played all throughout the movie. If I have to say, these are kakapangilabot original songs about love, written in English, played a la bolero, sang in godawful diction. I wanted to squirm and turn into a prune. Moreover, it inspired violent tendencies - like running amok and start shooting the audience inside the cinema. Population: 2. Believe me, watching this so-called movie just isn't healthy.

Another scene shows Santi briefing his fire brigade during one very sunny day. Listen and learn: "Maghanda tayo. Ang bagyo ay tatama sa loob ng dalawang oras." I shivered with fright.

Jeric Raval, looking youthful, tries to carry the story with a straight face but is limited by the absence of a decent plot. Former sexy star Hanni Miller (as Santi's wife) isn't given much to chew on either. Young upstarts are showcased, albeit fleetingly. Paolo Gumabao plays the teenage Santi. Despite his "baby fats" (check out his scenes at the beach), it is clear that Dennis Roldan's son is his father's spitting image. He actually reminds me of dashing Jake Ejercito - with lipid excrescences, of course. Nicole Gee and Marina Salvador look promising as well.

The film could be any of the following: a biopic; a flight of fancy; an invitation to the PNPA; a tutorial about fire prevention; a political propaganda for C/Supirentendent Santiago E. Laguna. Someone's probably eyeing for an elective position. Inspiring, this isn't. Quite frankly, this won't help Mr. Laguna. In fact, this dug him a hole. Without a doubt in mind, this godawful flick made me want to play with fire: Burn every darn personality responsible for producing this movie - then  feed them to Kuhol. And please include the SM Cinema executives who thought that this movie deserves to be seen by a paying audience. If this is what characterizes an SM Exclusive, I'd rather stay indoors. Thank you for wasting my time.

Gumabao and Gee enjoy baby-fat moments!

Hanni Miller

Nicole Gee

Paolo Gumabao channels Jake Ejercito

Jethro Ramirez plays bad guy Brando.

C/Supt. Santiago E. Laguna

Jigz Recto's "Katabi" - Of Stiffled Affections and Attention-Grabbing Bulges

Tom (Rafael Perez) and Jeff (Jigz Imperial) have known each other since they were kids. When Tom moves to the big city for work, Jeff follows suit. But life in the concrete jungle isn't easy so Tom invites his best friend to live with him. They do everything together: take their meals, share shower times and sleep in one bed.

One day, Jeff shares that Rhea (Nina Rossini), the girl next door, has agreed to become his girl friend. Would Tom want to meet her?

But the girl is a complex item in their equation. Rhea secretly flirts with straight-laced Tom who, one day, finally takes her bait and sleeps with the predatory girl. (Rhea, by the way, wants a luxurious watch similar to Jeff's prized possession. Such lofty ambition, debah?) This has put a strain on Jeff's relationship with Rhea.

She ends her commodious coupling with heart-broken Jeff who just borrowed P20,000 to get his girl the watch that she wanted. (She'd offer him heaven in exchange of riches; something that she's only too willing to impose on Tom without him asking. Go figure.)

When Jeff learns of Tom's concupiscent rendezvous with Rhea, the two friends quarrel. In tight white briefs, they engage in masculine fisticuffs, rolling on their small bed in errr, wild abandon. Accusations are thrown around - and Jeff finally kicks dear, dear Tom out of his house. Might as well. Tom's work is already suffering due to Jeff''s constant loans: the expensive gifts, the celebratory drinking sprees, etc.  Is this the end of their life long friendship? Guess.

Rafael Perez

Jigz Recto's "Katabi" is unexpectedly superior from his previous works, though this isn't in anyway an endorsement of his directorial acumen. Far from it. But this is ten notches better than his unenviable body of work characterized by bathetic stories that overly dramatize confrontations, stretched out for what seems like a dozen lifetimes. These were mawkish dregs of misplaced emotionality, interlocked with repeated shower scenes and peekaboo wonders, and acted by borderline wanna-be actors too clueless to delineate real emotions from make-believe. Moreover, these dramatic highlights are punctuated by persistently heavy-handed suspenseful music that go louder as situations progress.

Don't get me wrong. Shower scenes are still a staple in Recto flicks, but they've been moderated (blame the holier-than-thou  MTRCB for this very conservative trend of late). In one scene, the two friends bathe together; they "rub" each other's backs amid long, silent stares, broken by, "Nababakla ka na ata sa akin." These romantic coquetry create a few moments of unbridled sexual tension - that actually fizzle.

Such mood making is sustained after a drinking spree (Ugh. Didn't you expect?). When Jeff gets too inebriated to walk, Tom is only too glad to help. Jeff vomits on Tom's shirt while the latter takes his friend to bed, disrobes both their garments, until they're only donning their impeccably clean tight-and-white briefs. Tom then cleans his friend all over with a wet towel, every crevice diligently sponged. Meanwhile, the camera intermittently pans on Jeff's attention-grabbing bulge, you could probably use it as compass while it points north-east to pleasure first then switches south-west to joy. Jigz Imperial, it turns out, is directionally versatile. Incredible. Ooohlala!

Nina Rossini, playing the shrewd Rhea,  conveniently becomes a cinematic third wheel. But then this is a Jigz Recto movie where girls are third-class citizens and guys tintinnabulate their own bells. See Imperial rabidly sponge his privates (it must be exquisitely durrrty) as he makes several "dukot dukot" while intently bathing. It's almost an Olympic sports event at the rate he's doing it. Don't we just adore meticulously clean guys?  

Jigz Imperial is directionally versatile.

Baby Ruth Villarama's "Little Azkals" - Little Film, Big Heart

"The only way to be better," shares Phil Younghusband, Philippine Azkals' most prominent personality, "is to play with better players." Younghusband, an iconic figure in the sports, was invited by the team that gathers 22 under-11 boys from all over the nation to take them to Loughborough in Leicestershire, United Kingdom. This cultural partnership with the British Council and the British Embassy ambitiously endeavors to help train - for three weeks - the young upstarts right in the home of football, the world's most popular sport.

The undertaking isn't a walk in the park, uprooting kids to a place so far removed from their environment, some of whom still sleep beside their parents. Babysitting these boys can be a tactical nightmare. The team is composed of five kids from Mindanao (Cagayan de Oro, South Cotabato, Davao, Bukidnon and Dipolog), nine from the Visayas (Cebu, Negros Occidental, Iloilo, and Dumaguete), and eight from Luzon (Laguna and NCR).

There's Agiel of Negros Occidental, Niel of Malabon, Charles of Cebu, Shane of Malabon, Jil of Iloilo, Kano of Koronadal, Michael of Muntinlupa, Nicolai of Laguna, and 16 other kids from all over the land. Trouble starts early on when a typographical error almost bars one child from getting to his Emirates flight to London. 

For the upstarts, England is a virtual fantasy land, far from the gaze and nurturing care of their parents. Their only guardians are their coaches. Their new environment is cold and food has "no taste". Loughborough, for the next three weeks, becomes home. The place hosts football lessons the way they play it in England, and allows them matches against British teams, testing their skill against a race who lives and breathes the sport. Styled like a boot camp, the children sleeps at 10 PM and wakes up at 6 AM. Their days start with football exercises with day visits to good ole London, visiting Wembley to watch World Cup qualifying games (UK vs. Moldova); English Premiere League games (Albion vs Swansea); and Manchester United's turf. To some quarters, these provide a surreal experience.

On their first game, the "Little Azkals" lost against Quorn JFC 2-3, a game that discombobulated some of the players. In fact, Kano Rojo of Koronadal scores "for" the rival team. If this is quite telling, it's because the young Azkals played against a team that has been playing "together" for the last 5 years. They, however, are a new team, hailing from different provincial leagues. On their next game, they win an impressive 4:1 against their opponent. How's that for kids who have trouble playing their offsides and even have intermittent crying spells because they miss home?

Baby Ruth Villarama's "little film" wears a "big heart" so it's hard not to fall for our little hopefuls. In a country where "basketball" is the grassroot sport, "Little Azkals" shares tidbits of inspiration by taking baby steps towards an ambitious goal - the Under-17 FIFA World Cup of 2019. By that time, many of these young pups would have turned 16 and wiser in ways of the game.

INTERESTING MOMENTS

Daddy Rob visits the Little Azkals.

There are interesting moments worth mentioning: Like Phil Younghusband referencing his then-girlfriend Angel Locsin to get the children to listen: "Angel threw me a party last night. Do your girl friends do the same?" Rob Gier, co-captain of Philippine Azkals and centre back of Ascot United, also drops by to help coach the children during one of their matches, and - oh, what a gorgeous sight, but that's just me. ;)

In another scene, the children use an inordinate amount of salt to put flavor to their pasta. "Walang lasa," says one kid. We are a nation known to favor extreme taste; sweet or sour, and almost nothing in between. Or when one of the kids throw almost half his room to the laundry bag. Then there are the difficult wake up calls. Or when their English Coach  Stuart noticed the language barrier so he says in jest, "I'd have to speak 20x slower." Ouch. During an earlier pep talk, the coach also highlights the most important thing about the sport. That more than trying to get better in the game, you have to "enjoy yourself first". After all, games are supposed to be fun, and so is playing them.

The film, endearing though it may be, is rough around the edges and feels random than anything ground breaking. Camera work, for example, fails to capture winning goals on cam. While that may not be the point of this documentary, essential moments like that render a sense of urgency. What is a basketball documentary if it doesn't even have dribbles, dunks and making goals? This is a stark contrast to Cha Escala & Wena Sanchez's  "Nick and Chai" which has beautifully framed and efficiently photographed scenography. Sometimes "a big heart" just doesn't suffice when you're presenting an artistic medium like cinema. You just don't point and shoot unless you're content to being labelled an amateur - or someone hiding behind the guise of "documentarian". To put it bluntly, shoddy camera work is not art, unless you're Lars von Trier.

Moreover, the film feels like a fragment of a bigger picture. We don't see the earlier selection process that lead them to qualify for the Under-11 team. It's like getting into a novel midway into the book, and we're made to swallow what's being spoonfed. The prologue feels wanting. We're shown a few kids returning to their homes.  These limited scenes don't even have enough traction to get through as narrative denouement. What has the kids taken with them from their very British experience? Where has this journey taken them? Are they better players, or persons, after their experience? If anything, there's a sense of expurgated closure; an unfinished story waiting to be told.

Bright faces pose for posterity.