Sunday, February 16, 2025
9:00 AM |
The Other Kind of Inflation
At the height of the COVID-19 lockdown, I was one of several people commissioned by the Cultural Center of the Philippines to write the obituaries of artists who had passed on between the pandemic years of 2020 and 2023. It was a grim task, but the rationale was noble: to commemorate the lives of these Filipino artists for their contribution to Philippine culture—big or small—in a time when we were surrounded by so much death, and so much uncertainties. I readily said yes to the task, since I had always been a fan of how The New York Times did their obituaries [in fact, one of my favorite documentaries is Obit, directed by Vanessa Gould and released in 2016, which chronicled the work of these writers and the choice of their peculiar genre of writing]. And for some reason, then and now, I have always felt the need to write the obituaries of Filipino writers when they pass on, because I am often frustrated by how meager the writeups about them often are in mainstream media.
Writing those obituaries for the CCP felt like a necessity. By then, I had developed a system of research that enabled me to write a considerable tribute—scraping all corners of the Internet to find information, and approaching willing members of grieving families for a little bit more I cannot find online. [When is their birthday? Where is their birthplace? Where did they study, and what degree did they earn? Questions like that.] Part of the exercise was, of course, verifying the information I’d get—and this was where I usually found myself chuckling. Because, with all due respect to the dead, a number of them do inflate their accomplishments.
I still remember writing one such obituary for a musician. In his bio, he mentioned having studied in the U.S., and tutored by such and such teacher. This is par for the course of musicians. When they release their biodata for writeups in concert programs, they do mention the music schools they studied in, and the music masters they studied under. This gives credibility to their training, especially if those teachers are world-renowned musicians themselves, or their schools are sacred training grounds for music. I took this dead musician’s biodata, and inputted his claims in my prospective writeup—and then came the verification: it turned out the school he mentioned was not a music school but a high school he attended for one year in an exchange program, and the teachers he mentioned were not musicians but his high school music teachers. Far from my immediate assumption of him studying under masters in an incredible music school! I did not include these details in the final obit I made of him. The rest of what he did in the Philippines was enough.
So, yes, there is such a thing as inflating one’s accomplishments.
Over the past year, I caught two news stories—splashed with congratulatory headlines and with such drama on the media outlets they were published in—that are examples of this kind of inflation.
I remember reading about an author being celebrated for the fact that he was being published by Barnes and Noble! It sounded incredible, and to the uninitiated, truly worthy of praise. But I immediately thought: Barnes and Noble is not a publisher, it’s a bookstore, so how could this be? It turned out, the author being extolled had merely released an e-book, and it was being offered for sale on NOOK, Barnes and Noble’s own version of the Kindle. This is not the same as being published by a major publisher.
I remember reading about a visual artist being celebrated for the fact that she was being exhibited at the Louvre Museum in Paris! It sounded incredible, and to the uninitiated, truly enviable. But I immediately thought: the Louvre is not a commercial gallery, it is a repository of fine arts as collected by France, so how could this be? It turned out, the artist was being exhibited at the Carrousel du Louvre, an underground shopping mall that had direct access to the famed museum. This is not the same as being exhibited by the finest fine arts institution in Paris.
This essay was actually occasioned by a tweet from film critic Jason Tan Liwag, who posted on X [formerly Twitter] last February 9: “There's a difference between the Cannes Film Festival and other film festivals simply held in Cannes.” I was intrigued.
It turned out there is a filmmaker that media is currently crowing about, regarding his being “invited” to the Cannes Film Festival—which is truly an honor for any film artist. One headline reads: “How a late-blooming director conquered the international film scene.” The article describes his film as “becoming a finalist at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival.”
Nice.
It turned out he was not at all invited by Cannes artistic director Thierry Frémaux to be part of the main competition, or even in any of Cannes’ official parallel competitions every May, such as the Un Certain Regard or the Directors' Fortnight or the Tous les Cinémas du Mond. But his film actually participated at the Cannes World Film Festival—which is a totally different festival, also held at Cannes every June, with no ties to the official Festival de Cannes. [I also remember another filmmaker crowing about participating in Cannes. It turned out his film was merely hawked at one of those exhibitor markets that are corollary to festivals such as Cannes, and which anyone with a film to sell can join.]
There is a certain species of person who cannot resist the impulse to inflate their accomplishments. You know them. You have seen them. Perhaps you have even, in a moment of weakness, succumbed to this temptation yourself. In faculty lounges, in alumni reunions, in the halcyon corners of cocktail parties, they hold court with grand pronouncements of triumphs often unverifiable. And yet, their audience nods along, some in admiration, others in veiled amusement. The Bisaya word for this is “hambog,” a label so easily affixed to anyone whose self-confidence tips, ever so slightly, into boastfulness. But what compels people to do this? What primal need is satisfied by exaggeration?
Psychologists might tell us that this tendency stems from a deep-seated insecurity. Alfred Adler, that old rival of Freud, would perhaps explain this as a classic case of overcompensation—a defense mechanism meant to mask one’s private feelings of inadequacy. A struggling writer, unpublished but desperate for literary recognition, might inflate the significance of a rejected manuscript by calling it “highly praised” by editors who merely sent a polite rejection letter. A businessman, teetering on the edge of financial ruin, might exaggerate his recent successes to maintain an air of affluence. It is a survival tactic, a way of keeping up appearances, because in a society that equates achievement with worth, to be seen as ordinary is to be invisible.
And yet, there is also something deeper, something almost cultural at play. The Filipino psyche, shaped by centuries of colonial rule and the relentless pursuit of social mobility, is uniquely susceptible to the need for validation. Our histories are punctuated by stories of social climbing—by ilustrados who flaunted their European education, by politicians whose surnames become brands, by socialites who name-drop the hacenderos of old, or by so-called historians who has no published historiography but whose claim to fame is alleged kinship to every single important family in the province. To declare one’s success, even in embellished form, is to assert one’s place in the hierarchy, to ward off the creeping dread of being relegated to irrelevance.
There is, too, the simple seduction of storytelling. The line between truth and embellishment is often blurred, especially in a culture that values wit and oratory. To tell a good story—one that elicits gasps of admiration or knowing chuckles—is often more important than strict adherence to fact. This is why a provincial mayor’s minor government project might be presented as “nationwide reform,” or why an academic’s modest conference paper might be rebranded as “groundbreaking research.” The mythologizing of the self is an art form, honed over years of careful curation. And in the age of social media, where the highlight reel of one’s life is curated for public consumption, the temptation to embellish becomes all the more irresistible.
But what does this do to the people who practice it? If a lie is told often enough, does it not become a kind of truth? There is an inherent danger in believing one’s own exaggerations. To convince oneself that an exaggerated accomplishment is real is to become complacent, to cease striving for genuine achievement. This is why a society that rewards the illusion of success often stagnates. When merit is measured not by substance but by perception, we create a culture of empty accolades, of self-proclaimed experts who have mastered the art of self-promotion but lack the depth of true expertise.
The antidote to this, I think, is a return to quiet competence, to an ethic of humility that values work over recognition. Some of the greatest minds in history have been those who labored in obscurity, more concerned with the quality of their work than with the applause it might garner. The true measure of one’s worth is not found in how loudly one declares one’s success, but in the silent impact one leaves in the wake of genuine accomplishment.
Labels: life, psychology
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Saturday, February 15, 2025
3:58 PM |
Ardor for Arbour
We write this in leave-taking. By the time this essay sees print, Arbour—the restaurant along Hibbard Avenue near Bantayan which had delighted the most discriminating food lovers in Dumaguete since its establishment at the height of the pandemic—would have closed, leaving behind its namesake now gracing the restaurant at Silver Reef Resort in Dauin. In a sense, Arbour will still be with us. But that mint green enclave of culinary goodness in Bantayan will be much-missed.
But we caught one of its last services for Valentines Day, so in a sense, this is also a love letter of sorts to chef Jan Schlimme and wife Jen, whom we first met in Dumaguete at the height of the pandemic—in October 2021, to be exact. They were vacationing in Bacolod from restaurant work in Hong Kong when the lockdown happened, and as the tolls of the pandemic turned into a long certainty, both answered a call to do food consulting for Casablanca Restaurant in Dumaguete. It was supposed to be a short stay: just revamp the Casablanca menu to suit pandemic realities, and then go back to Bacolod or elsewhere. But as with the usual, the Schlimmes found themselves “na-dagit” in Dumaguete, and in December of 2021, they found themselves establishing Arbour, what they envisioned to be a modern European restaurant nestled in Dumaguete.
We’ve loved Arbour’s fares since its beginnings, but this Valentine dinner proved to be something else.
One might expect bombast suited for couples celebrating love on love day itself—but what we liked about our Valentine dinner at Arbour was its restraint. There is a quiet artistry to restraint. In the culinary world, where excess is often mistaken for excellence, true mastery lies in knowing when to hold back. Arbour, helmed by the deft hands of head chef Jan Schlimme, understands this. In a city like Dumaguete—where the abundance of imported goods tempts restaurants into over-reliance on the exotic—Arbour does something radical: it trusts its ingredients, it allows them to shine on the plate. Here, the stars of the meal are not the truffle oils or the aged cheeses, but the produce, fresh and immediate, speaking in flavors unmasked by pretense. Arbour makes the flavor of their ingredients their main star attraction, and rather than to mask the basic components, their adept use of seasoning enhances the flavors of each element, pushed to their limit by the addition of just enough salt and pepper.
The journey begins with a plate that feels like the memory of an afternoon garden. The roasted beetroot salad, vibrant in its deep magenta, is an ode to the earth’s sweetness. The beets and carrots, slow-roasted until their sugars bloom, find a sharp foil in the herbed goat cheese, its tang cutting through like a breeze. There is a kind of poetry in this contrast—take note of the soft caramelization of root vegetables against the assertive creaminess of cheese. The dill fronds and lettuce greens lend their crispness, a whisper of freshness that lifts the dish from the soil into the air. It is, in many ways, a microcosm of Arbour itself: simplicity rendered with precision, a dish that knows exactly what it wants to be.
Then there is the salmon, pan-seared to that elusive point where the skin crackles but the flesh still yields at the touch of a fork. It comes with creamed potatoes, a comforting counterweight, and cucumbers that sing in cool, clean notes. What is remarkable is how the dish avoids the heaviness often associated with cream and oil. The balance is meticulous—enough seasoning to coax out the natural flavors, never enough to overshadow them. Here, every element has a role to play, and each one performs it to perfection.
The braised beef cheek arrives next, steeped in a red wine sauce that speaks of slow afternoons and patient craftsmanship. The meat falls apart at the suggestion of a spoon, its richness cut by the gentle char of green onion. Julienne carrots, bound in a delicate green ribbon, add a touch of visual poetry. There is nostalgia here—the unshakable warmth of beef and potatoes, a partnership as old as time. Yet, there is also refinement: the subtle elevation of flavor, the understanding that indulgence need not be overwhelming. A slice of bread would have been a welcome addition, something to sop up every last drop of sauce, but even without it, the dish stands whole, assured.
The meal closes with a flourish: a vanilla crème, lush and thick, paired with fresh strawberries, a bright compote, and a dark, silken ganache. It is an elegant echo of childhood indulgence—the trio of vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate familiar yet new. Again, richness versus freshness ebb and flow throughout eating this dish: a spoonful of the vanilla crème and chocolate ganache in one bite then fresh strawberries and mint in the other. The strawberry compote adds a touch of acidity and sweetness. An added element of a salted biscuit crumb would have brought this dessert into new heights, but as is it closes the meal succinctly. Arbour understands when to stop. And that is its magic.
We will miss Arbour as it existed in Bantayan since 2021. European food borne in the tropics has its unique obstacles to overcome. Despite the abundance of suppliers in Dumaguete for processed food like cured meats, cheeses, and dairy products, Arbour never relies on these ingredients as trump cards to make good dishes. We’ve found that these ingredients, in Jan Schlimme’s hands, are supporting characters to the real highlight, which is the fresh produce.
Thank you for three years of good food, Arbour.
[Written with Renz Torres for “Culinary Cuts” for Dumaguete MetroPost, 16 February 2025 issue]
Labels: dumaguete, food, pandemic, review
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Wednesday, February 12, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 226.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Tuesday, February 11, 2025
11:42 PM |
Naps and Lost Time
I was working for a bit but became sleepy, so I went for a nap late in the afternoon. This turned out to be real sleep, only to be woken up to the sounds of Renz coming in to the apartment. I thought it was morning. I asked, “What time is it?” He says, “Ten o’clock.” I was like: Oh no, I overslept for a meeting. I asked, just to make sure: “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” He says: “It’s Tuesday.” And I was like: Oh no, Renz is confused about his days. Then I asked, just to be clear: “Is it morning or evening?” He says: “Evening.” I was like: Oh, thank God, but wasn’t I supposed to only take a nap? The endless battle with sleepiness.Labels: adhd, life, mental health
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, February 09, 2025
9:00 AM |
My Favorite Third Space
Anyone who knows me well enough knows where to find me in Dumaguete, if they really wanted to find me. Because people who know best know I never [usually] answer text messages, and emails [and Viber and WhatsApp] are things I cursorily do once in a blue moon, preferring to centralize all forms of electronic messaging via Messenger. It’s part of the challenges I bear as someone with neurodivergence. We are not designed to be so reachable in so many platforms, which is why I have limited all these access to a few manageable channels.
There is always a constant need to declutter my head and to find a space to find the best kind of quiet that allows me to function my best. Space is an important thing to consider: like everyone else, we primarily inhabit two—the space we do our work in [i.e., our offices, etc.] and the space we call home and where we rest, where we partake of our ritual meals, where we allow ourselves to seed. But we also need the so-called “third space.” And this is the place that somehow finds common ground with the best aspects of our first two spaces—and also where we get to connect with other people in an informal way, and with our relaxed selves. This is also the space where you allow yourself to stretch and be creative, on your own terms.
For many, a good park is enough of a third space. This is why places like M.L. Quezon Park—which is really not a park, but a plaza—and the Rizal Boulevard, especially the Pantawan area, are popular for many Dumaguetenos. Here, everyone does their thing but in community with many other people. Sometimes we Zumba or do ballroom dancing. Sometimes we jog around these areas, or do tai chi. Sometimes we sing karaoke, fish, eat at the tempurahan, or just hang out in the open with our friends. Third spaces are essential for these very human activities, and the very human connection they foster.
I love these places, too, but my preferred third space has always been cafes. And in Dumaguete, I have had a string of favorite cafes to hang out in. Fresh off college, my favorite place was Café Memento [housed in what is now Sizzlers]. Then there was the old Don Atilano along Rizal Avenue [which is now 1988 Bistro]. Then there was KRI. And for the longest time, my other home was Qyosko along Calle Sta. Rosa, especially when it was a 24-hour bistro. I would always go there after work—to relax, to get coffee, to eat my dinner, and to accomplish the many things I needed to do. It was in Qyosko that I finished writing my MA thesis. It was in Qyosko where I assembled my first two books. It was in Qyosko where I met with so many friends and brainstormed with like-minded people such events as the Silliman Film Open. When Qyosko closed last year, it felt like a piece of my history was erased. This is how vital our third spaces are for us. They are part of the fabric of our being.
These days, Café Estacion, a stone’s throw away from the where Qyosko was located, mostly serve the same capacity as that beloved bistro—especially given the fact that they close late, and serve good coffee. [Many students in Dumaguete seem to agree with me, because Café Estacion is always swarming with them.] And sometimes, when I feel the need for a good dose of quiet—enough to soothe my anxieties and my whirling ADHD-addled brain—I go to Hemmingway Coffee Lounge along Don Diego de la Viña Road.
But if you really want to find me in Dumaguete, you can do so right in this corner of Rizal Avenue at The Bricks Hotel—which they used to call Caña—where I read, write, reflect, and breathe outside the obligations of home and work. This is my sanctuary, my favorite “third space”—the place that allows me to be neither professor nor householder, but simply a person at rest, gathering thoughts, allowing them to settle before they take shape in words.
The coffee is always within reach, and the staff, familiar and warm, know me well enough to sense when I need conversation or when I need silence. [It’s mostly quiet, and I am always obliged. So, thank you, Gem. Thank you, Glenn. Thank you, Steve. Thank you, Nico. Thank you, Pam. Thank you, Paddie.]
From where I sit, I like what I see: the Rizal Boulevard is only a few strides away, and every day from my chosen table at Bricks, I see the blue of the sky and the horizon blending, and I hear the whirr of traffic on this busy stretch of Dumaguete City. It’s mostly cool, but even on the hottest days, the breeze from the Bohol Sea drifts in, steady and unfailing. I like that I can look up at any moment and see the horizon. I need that. I am an island boy, and I need the sea.
A city like Dumaguete thrives on spaces like this, places that exist somewhere between solitude and community. It is, after all, a city that invites contemplation, that allows for slowness without guilt. In a world that insists on urgency, I think this is a gift. Some call Dumaguete the “city of gentle people,” but I have come to think of it as the “city of quiet makers”—writers, artists, thinkers—who seek places where they can create undisturbed yet still feel tethered to life’s small movements.
I think about all the times I have sat here, in this spot, watching the quiet choreography of Rizal Avenue. [Please do note the distinction: the street is Rizal Avenue, the promenade is Rizal Boulevard.] Couples walk by in slow conversation, and sometimes I see students pore over their school notes on the seawall. Vendors call out their wares, runners pass by, their steps rhythmic against the pavement. The city unfolds in these small, unscripted scenes, and I’d sit here, my notebook [or my laptop] in hand, trying to catch the poetry of it all, trying to find the meaning in the mundane.
Dumaguete has always been a haven for writers and other creatives like me, for those who need a space between their minds and the world. The acacia trees lining the streets, the bells of the old cathedral, the golden shimmer of the boulevard at dusk—these are not just landmarks; they are part of a larger rhythm, a kind of unspoken permission to pause and listen.
A third space is necessary, I think, for anyone who seeks to create. It is where the mind unwinds, where thoughts settle into patterns, where stories are born. It is a place of arrival and departure, a liminal space between obligation and freedom. Dumaguete, with its open-air cafés, its quiet corners, its endless horizon, offers this in a way few cities do. This is why some people pass through, but others, like me, find themselves staying, unable to leave the rhythm of the sea, the hush of the boulevard, the comfort of knowing there is always a place to sit and simply be.
Not far from here, at the edge of the Rizal Boulevard, I sometimes see fishermen push their boats into the water in the early morning, their silhouettes dark against the rising sun. And in the afternoons, I see children chase each other along the concrete walk of the promenade, their laughter carried by the wind. Life continues like that, in small, steady beats, in Dumaguete.
And I sit here, my coffee cooling in its cup, the waves rolling in and out, in and out—Dumaguete’s quiet, steady heart still pulsing, still holding space for those of us who need it.
Labels: life, third spaces
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Wednesday, February 05, 2025
9:30 PM |
The Duende of Lost Things
We were finally convinced today that some mischievous duende has been playing tricks on us. In the span of two weeks, we’ve been losing things: Renz his watch (twice), and then his notebook; Tita Melisa with her power bank; and me with my wallet, my coin purse, and my PWD card — but in my case, all thankfully recovered. And I’ve been really mindful of my things actually. Tonight, for example, before heading out to dinner after a full day of meetings, we were laughing about me misplacing my wallet, and I was waving it around before I placed it in its usual spot in my bag. Then we went to the ATM to withdraw some money, and when I tried to retrieve my wallet, it was gone — only to be found in a totally different pocket of my bag. Like, what the hey? Duende, be gone! Labels: life
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 225.
Labels: poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, February 02, 2025
9:00 AM |
Why We Read Together
Once a month since last July, we arrive—mostly quietly—with our books at the Arts and Design Collective Dumaguete along E.J. Blanco Drive, home of Libraria Books. One by one, we come—all of us readers in Dumaguete—some early, and some late; we settle, we say hello; we nod, and smile. We filter into some cozy corners of the old house, or on fluffy chairs, or on the floormat, each of us carrying a book. Some bring fiction, some poetry, some nonfiction. Once in a while, some even bring college textbooks. [Not kidding. For our January session, someone brought Nigel Benson’s The Psychology Book.] Most would bring actual books, although some are content with electronic devices, like a Kindle. Some would first go to Fermentina Café to get drinks, or to Mister Saigon to grab a quick bite.
And then, when 6 PM comes, Libraria’s Gayle Acar welcomes everyone. She is the host. She reminds us of a few rules to begin the session—you can bring any book of your choice; you need to keep your phones on mute; you will read in two 30-minute blocks of reading time [with a 10-minute break in between]; you don’t have to expect a book discussion because this is not required.
And then a shared silence takes hold. A novel opens, a page turns, a deep breath is taken, and then we read. It is a ritual as simple as it is profound: a group of people choosing to read together, not for discussion, not for obligation, but simply for the joy of reading.
This is a fairly new thing in Dumaguete, even though the city has always had the rhythm of a literary town that it is. It is a place where the written word is as much a part of daily life as the sea breeze that drifts in from the Rizal Boulevard. Writers and readers, students and teachers, artists and dreamers all find a kind of quiet solace here, whether in the century-old halls of Silliman University, in the pages of a book borrowed from someone’s personal library, or in the unhurried conversations that unfold over coffee in one of the city’s many small cafés. Literature thrives here—not just in the texts produced by its poets and novelists but also in the way people live with books, in the way reading itself is woven into the city’s fabric.
It is no surprise then that Silent Book Club has found its place in Dumaguete. This global movement has grown into a phenomenon spanning cities and continents, and in a place like Dumaguete—where reading is already an everyday act—it feels like a natural fit. Unlike traditional book clubs that revolve around assigned readings and structured discussions, Silent Book Club offers something more flexible, more personal. Readers gather in a chosen space, settle in with their books, and read in shared silence. There is no required novel to analyze, no expectation to articulate a critique. Just the simple joy of reading, alone but together.
Dumaguete’s literary reputation is deeply rooted in its history. The Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the oldest of its kind in Asia, has shaped generations of Filipino writers, drawing emerging voices from across the country to engage in critical discussions about craft and storytelling. Beyond the workshop, Dumaguete has long been a hub for literary gatherings, from poetry readings to book launches, from late-night conversations about writing to impromptu storytelling sessions in quiet corners of cafés. [Last year, we initiated the first Dumaguete Literary Festival, and its second edition is slated on April 2025.]
Silent Book Club, in its own way, continues this Dumaguete literary tradition while offering an alternative space for local readers who simply want to immerse themselves in books without the weight of critique. It acknowledges that literature is not just about discourse but also about presence, about companionship in solitude. And for a city that already embraces literature in all its forms, this quiet movement feels like an extension of an already thriving culture.
The concept of Silent Book Club was born out of a simple need: to create a reading community without the pressures of traditional book clubs. Guinevere de la Mare and Laura Gluhanich, two friends in San Francisco, started meeting in 2012 in a wine bar with their books, realizing that they enjoyed the presence of others who were similarly engaged in quiet reading. What began as a small gathering soon spread across cities worldwide, with each chapter adopting its own unique approach to hosting reading sessions. In the Philippines, beyond Dumaguete, there are Silent Book Clubs in Manila, in Iloilo, in Baguio, and in Cagayan de Oro City.
Unlike structured book clubs that require a commitment to specific titles, Silent Book Club welcomes all kinds of readers. It is inclusive in its simplicity: anyone can join, bringing whatever book they are currently reading, staying as long as they like. There is no need to finish a chapter by a deadline, no obligation to offer insights—only the act of reading itself.
I think this stance is perfectly right in the kind of word we live in, which constantly demands engagement—whether through social media, work, or the general busyness of life. Silent Book Club, in a way, offers a kind of resistance to this expectation of contemporary life. It is a reminder that reading can be a slow, deliberate act, and one that does not need to be productive or performative. It is merely enough to sit with a book, to lose oneself in its pages, to turn the act of reading into a shared but deeply personal experience.
For Dumaguete’s readers, this is particularly significant. The city has always been a refuge for those who seek quiet contemplation, and Silent Book Club reinforces that legacy. It provides a space where reading is not just a solitary pleasure but a communal one, where book lovers can gather without the need for conversation, simply enjoying the presence of others who share the same love for the written word.
I asked Ina Tizon why she comes every month. “John and I both decided to join Silent Book Club 6200 so we can finally get around to reading our backlog of books,” she says. “Though to be honest, our main purpose was to go out of the house and socialize with our friends and other like-minded individuals. And we got to tick both of those boxes when we attended, we also get to meet new people and have long chats afterwards.”
I asked Pia Villareal the same question. “I joined because it was an excuse to read somewhere silent that wasn’t just the same four walls of my room,” she says. “It’s also easier not to get distracted when there’s outside pressure to keep doing the thing you want to do, which in this case is reading. And lastly, it’s just a really convenient way to be among people who appreciate books and have the decency to stay quiet while you read.”
From Tara de Leon: “I sadly suffer from what is referred to as ‘brain rot.’ It has made reading books difficult but it hasn’t curbed the desire to hoard. When I’m surrounded by people who enjoy what they’re doing, I get caught in the current of their excitement. I joined the Silent Book Club 6200 in the hope that by osmosis, I can rekindle my love for reading—and also tackle my mounting to-read tower!”
From Leah Navarro: “As someone who used to read a lot but now has difficulty doing so, I have hoped joining the Silent Book Club will spark my desire to consume books again. Which, apparently, after many sessions, has immensely helped me read the books I just put on the shelf after buying them. It’s like rekindling an old flame—and for me, having a community that read together for an hour is quite inspiring. I look forward to each month, to seeing new [and old] faces, to talk about their progress on the books that they have chosen to read.”
From Dominique Roleda: “I mainly joined because I needed an excuse to read. I had been in such a huge reading slump for the past two years, where I’d start a new book, then forget about it and then start another. I just could not finish reading a book! And then I’d make excuses that it was because I was busy, and I had other things to do. When I heard that there was a book club though, I figured that I’d give it a shot. Silent Book Club gave me an excuse to actually go out and read, so that was hitting two birds with one stone. I didn’t really think that it would be for me, because I didn’t think reading in silence would be very engaging, but just being around people reading and mirroring them did help me get out of my reading slump. It also feels comforting to silently be a part of a community, even though there isn’t much talking involved, just a shared love of books. I feel like whenever I was part of online book clubs before where there were discussions, it just pressured me into putting up a persona so that I didn’t seem dumb, and I was rushing to read so I had something to talk about—but missing the enjoyment of the book actually sucked, and that got tiring real quickly. Just silently existing in a room to read with other people [who also love reading books as much as I do] is comforting in its own way. And I’d also get some good recommendations for my next read just by looking around! And if I really want to start a conversation, asking about books at the Silent Book Club is pretty much a free ice-breaker.”
I do hope Silent Book Club becomes a firm fixture in Dumaguete’s literary landscape, much like the workshops and readings that have come before it. I love its simplicity. I love that it requires no grand gestures and no elaborate discussions—just a group of people reading together, in silence, finding comfort in the shared stillness of books.
Silent Book Club 6200 [ Instagram: @silentbookclub.6200 ] meets once a month, usually on a Wednesday night, at Libraria Books at 58 EJ Blanco Drive. The event is free and open to the public.
Labels: books, city of literature, dumaguete, literature, silent book club
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Saturday, February 01, 2025
2:23 AM |
I'm Outta Here
Walter Salles’ I’m Still Here [2024], which is up for Best Picture at the Oscars, is basically the Brazilian Dekada ‘70 [2002], with Fernanda Torres taking on the Vilma Santos role. Torres as Eunice Paiva is a stalwart saint from beginning to end, and while the role is acted to brilliant pieces, it doesn’t make for good characterization, or propulsive storytelling because she has no arc. [And what is up with that ending? Sure, that's Fernando Montenegro, whom I love in Central Station, swapping in for the role with her real-life daughter, but what is that ending?] Meanwhile, Santos’ Amanda Bartolome goes from mousy and uncaring-about-current-events housewife and mother to fierce activist in the course of the film, which actually make for good cinema, and a good arc, enriched in a way only the late Lualhati Bautista could conjure a complex female character. I think I like Chito Roño’s film better. And I wish Philippine cinema had a better PR machine even then to get similar acclaim worldwide.
P.S. I think I will stop watching movies for a few days. I’m just annoyed at everything that I see. September 5 and Nickel Boys were immense disappointments, Conclave and A Complete Unknown were nice but underwhelming. I don’t like Emilia Perez, and I found Anora brilliant and funny but ultimately empty and glib without a real awareness of how the real world works. The only Best Picture nominees I really liked are Dune Part 2, The Substance, and Wicked. I also really love A Real Pain, but they didn’t nominate that one for the big prize. And, no, The Brutalist does not exist. [Is it even out?] The only fantastic category at the Oscars this year is Best Animated Feature. Walang patapon: Flow, The Wild Robot, Memoir of a Snail, Wallace and Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl, and Inside Out 2 — and would you believe the last one is the least of them all.
Labels: film
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, January 29, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 224.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
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Monday, January 27, 2025
7:48 PM |
Gloria Romero [1933-2025]
She was probably the one movie legend familiar to most Filipinos, given that her career spanned decades, and she never left the industry, and her face was always up there on our silver screens, beguiling us with her presence. She was probably the first movie star I knew to be a movie star, from my introduction to her through grainy black and white movies shown on the regular on RPN 9 in the 1980s, to her elderly patrician figure in contemporary movies in the years since then. I genuinely wish I was more familiar with her filmography, but most of her earlier films are gone. Labels: film, obituary, people
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Sunday, January 26, 2025
9:00 AM |
After Blue Monday
Last Monday, January 20, was a day thick with contradictions—a day where reality seemed to embody the peculiarities of a David Lynch film: baffling, surreal, outlandish. Coincidentally, it was the birthday of Lynch himself, who had passed away just days before turning 79. The surreal twist? It was also Martin Luther King Day, a moment ostensibly dedicated to hope and justice, while across the globe, the shadows of despair seemed to loom large. That same day marked the inauguration of a felon as President of what was once the most powerful country in the world—a nation, I believe, is now teetering on the edge of its ideals. Add to this the declaration of National Mental Health Week and the infamy of Blue Monday, the day New Year’s resolutions typically meet their doom. Together, it made for an ensemble of events that felt both absurd—and painfully resonant.
Truth to tell, I haven’t actively read the news since November. At first, it was a conscious decision to preserve my sanity, but over time, it morphed into something darker: a slow embrace of nihilism. It’s hard to keep believing in the sanctity of things—of hope, of progress, of love—when every headline feels like another nail in the coffin of optimism. And yet, here we are, navigating the chaos, still managing our lives and expectations, and still trying to find happiness amidst it all.
(Or, are we?)
I know that life often feels like a tightrope act. We tread carefully, hoping not to fall, but the weight of societal expectations, our personal struggles, and global despair can make even the sturdiest among us waver. From a young age, we are taught to envision happiness as a goal—a destination we’ll reach once we’ve checked off all the boxes: a good job, a stable relationship, financial security. But what happens when those boxes remain unchecked or, worse, when they are checked, but happiness still feels elusive?
Lately, I’ve come to realize that managing life and expectations requires a kind of recalibration. Instead of chasing an ideal, perhaps it’s more about learning to live with the imperfections.
There’s a quiet beauty, to be honest, in accepting that not every day will be good, but there can still be good in every day. This isn’t about toxic positivity—the kind that insists on finding a silver lining in every storm. It’s an ability to acknowledge the storm, to feel its weight—and still find a way to move forward.
Today, I was invited by the staff of the Silimanian Magazine to talk about my mental health struggles in an interview, hoping to feature this story in an upcoming issue of the magazine. I did so because mental health has become a kind of advocacy for me of late—and I know I have a considerable platform where people listen, where I can actually help them find articulation for what they’re going through, because I’m going through the same things myself. When that story comes out, I think in March, I hope Sillimanian Magazine will do justice to my mental health story—and I hope it will find resonance in people who need help, as well as with people who need to understand that mental health struggles do in fact exist.
Managing mental health, especially in times like these, is akin to tending a garden in the midst of a drought. The soil is parched, the air heavy, and yet we persist in planting seeds.
For me, this has meant setting boundaries with the deluge of bad news. It’s not about ignorance; it’s about self-preservation. There’s only so much heartbreak a person can take before they begin to crack, and it’s okay to step back, to choose silence over noise, stillness over chaos.
Therapy helps, of course. So does certain tricks to grapple with my ADHD like body doubling , or even journaling—pouring out my thoughts that swirl endlessly in my mind, and giving them form and then letting them go on the pages of either my diary, or on my blog. (Or this column.) Some days, I find solace in books or music or the simple act of brewing a cup of coffee. Other days, it’s harder. The shadows creep in, the mental paralysis takes its nasty form, and all I can do sometimes is hold on, trusting that this, too, shall pass. (Ritalin helps.)
I have come to understand that happiness isn’t always a grand and sweeping thing. It’s not the fireworks on New Year’s Eve or the applause of a crowd. Often, it’s small and quiet, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. I know it sounds corny, but it can be the warmth of sunlight on your skin, the sound of laughter shared with a friend, the first bite of your favorite meal. (Or, like what I noted last week, an OBT around Dumaguete with your beloved.) These moments are fleeting, but they are also powerful reminders that even in the darkest times, there is still light.
It’s tempting, in the face of so much despair, to surrender to cynicism. To believe that nothing matters, that all efforts are futile. But perhaps there’s a kind of courage in choosing to care anyway. In planting those seeds, even when the odds are stacked against you. In believing, as David Lynch might have, that life’s absurdities hold their own kind of meaning.
Last Monday was a microcosm of the world we live in: a place of contradictions, where joy and sorrow, hope and despair, coexist. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, to feel overwhelmed by the weight of it all. But maybe the answer isn’t to drown it out entirely. Maybe it’s to find your own rhythm within it, to dance to a beat that feels true to you.
Labels: life, mental health
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1:17 AM |
From Hives to Death Row
Part 2 of the 2024 Oscar Shorts Considered
The allure of the documentary short is its journalistic fervor demonstrated in brevity. I’ve always preferred nonfiction as a genre to enjoy—these days, the books I read are mostly nonfiction titles [I am drawn towards subjects involving history and the arts, and sometimes biographies], and the films I gravitate to the most are documentaries. And so, when a nonfiction film does its job in a short running time, I consider that a huge win: I learn of true things with societal import, and I did it without whiling away precious time I do not really have given a busy life.
This is why I keep track of documentary short subject films considered annually by the Academy Awards—especially through the short list it puts out in December of every year, which culls into fifteen titles from a list of possible hundreds. This is helpful because one cannot really track and see all the documentary shorts that get produced every year. Who has the time? Fifteen is manageable. I am aware that there are many superior documentary shorts that may be overlooked every year—which is unfortunate, but that is how the system works, and again, fifteen titles are manageable.
For this year, the Oscars nominated the following documentary shorts: Incident [d. Bill Morrison], I Am Ready, Warden [d. Smriti Mundhra], The Only Girl in the Orchestra [d. Molly O’Brien], Death by Numbers [d. Kim A. Snyder], and Instruments of a Beating Heart [d. Ema Ryan Yamazaki].
I have seen all the shortlisted documentary shorts, except for two. Of all the nominated titles, I have yet to see Death by Numbers, which has earned a reputation of late as being a “white whale.” It is about the aftermath of the school shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High, and follows the advocacy of one survivor. The film has been rated highly, with one Letterbxd reviewer commenting: “I appreciate the focus on the micro rather than the macro. This isn't an overview or statement on school shootings, but a look at how one person is impacted immediately and going forward.” This sounds like an endorsement, so I will probably like this film.
Among the unnominated films in the short list, I have yet to see Once Upon a Time in Ukraine by Betsy West, a filmmaker whose past documentaries [often in tandem with Julia Cohen] I have enjoyed immensely, including RBG [a 2019 film about the late Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg which was nominated for Best Documentary in its year] and Julia [a 2021 about Julia Childs]. Would I have enjoyed Once Upon a Time in Ukraine if I had seen it? Most probably, given the director—although I am naturally wary [or perhaps weary?] of war documentaries.
There are three films which I found quite surprising for missing the nomination, simply because they are so powerfully made, with subjects I would have thought would resonate the most with regular Oscar voters. Then again, they also did not nominate Rashida Jones and Will McCormack’s A Swim Lesson, given that one of its directors is a popular actress and the daughter of Quincy Jones, and that its conceit is closely tailored after My Octopus Teacher, a 2020 documentary short which won its category in its Oscar year—but instead of an octopus, the helpful purveyor of life lessons is a Beverly Hills swimming teacher. [I rather prefer the aquatic animal.]
But Hannah Rafkin’s Keeper is a beautiful, essential, emphatic, and restrained work, about a United Nations staffer in New York who moonlights as an urban beekeeper, and who perseveres in his calling despite a bee allergy and a bout of cancer. [It is also a story of the beekeeper’s daughter, a brilliant young woman who deftly balances college life with beekeeping and taking care of her ailing father.] It always pains me to see that bad things [i.e., cancer] can happen to good people, but otherwise it is a hopeful story about a beautiful family, and what they do—beekeeping in a big city—is awesome. It is, however, not nominated for the Oscars this year. Watch it anyway.
Chasing Roo by Skye Fitzgerald [who has been nominated in this category before, with the powerful Hunger Ward], is also another must-watch. It is a deftly handled piece—about wildlife rescue experts in Australia devoting their lives to saving kangaroos, in tension with professional hunters seeking to harvest them for meat—and the film surprises for its balance between tenderness and visceral carnage, and also surprises for its observant humanity. Its score and sound design are also vital aesthetic choices. It doesn’t shy away from showing us the non-tender parts [those dogs attacking that hog and the various scenes of hunting and killing kangaroos will have animal rights activists up in arms], which could be graphic, but I think they are necessary to prove the film’s point. It is, however, not nominated for the Oscars this year. Watch it anyway.
Nadia Gill and Dominic Gill’s Planetwalker is a poignant portrait of John Francis, who is popularly known with the titular moniker. In 1971, he witnessed an oil tanker collision in the San Francisco Bay, and the sight of dead birds on the shoreline, harmed by the oil spill, caused him to give up motorized transport and began walking everywhere. He took another radical move, and vowed not to speak, convinced that listening rather than talking adding fuel to the fire of any issue. This did not stop him from earning graduate credentials, and even becoming a college professor. He didn’t talk and he didn’t use motorized vehicles, but he taught using the simplest hand signals and walked everywhere, even to various parts of the globe which would invite him to “talk” about his environmental advocacy. It is a stirring portrait of a committed man and a gentle soul. It is, however, not nominated for the Oscars this year. Watch it anyway.
The rest of the unnominated films are powerful in their own right, but are flawed in many ways—but that does not stop some films from achieving greatness. I’m not sure these are great, but they are fascinating portraits. Kimberly Reed’s Seat 31 follows Zooey Zephyr, who was expelled from the House of Representatives in Montana for rebuking its members on a prospective bill banning transgender medical care. She later made a nearby bench her “office.” The film follows her struggles, and her triumphs, but is most powerful when it showcases the hate she confronts from the most ordinary of people—like a tribe of housewives taking over her bench, just to piss her off. The film feels necessary, and while it did resonate, I found its subject matter a little too performative for comfort. But I guess you have to be that to be in politics and wanting change. I understand why it was nominated.
Jenifer McShane’s The Quilters—about a group of inmates who turn to quilt-making as a form of rehabilitation—makes for good double screening with Greg Kwedar’s Sing Sing [2024], which is also about art-pursuing inmates, this time revolving around theatre, and has produced an Oscar hopeful in Colman Domingo, who is now nominated for Best Actor for the movie. I like how observant The Quilters was, and how appropriately paced. It feels plain, however, and ultimately does not rise to memorable. I understand why it was not nominated.
Julio Palacio’s Makayla’s Voice: A Letter to the World is about a teenage girl with non-verbal autism, whom the film depicts as someone who “unlocks a joyous world of self-expression as she shares her voice for the first time using a letter board.” That assertion, however—about the effectivity of letter boards as communication medium for those with autism—has proven controversial. And the film did not really move me. I understand why it was not nominated.
Jacqueline Baylon’s Until He’s Back is about a Moroccan father who has learned that his son has died in an attempt to get to Spain as a refugee. He embarks on the difficult task to bring his son’s remains back home—and faces a complicated process of repatriation. The film is important—but to be honest, as soon as I finished watching it, I forgot all about it, which meant it had no resonance. I understand why it was not nominated.
Ömer Sami’s Eternal Father is a strange one. It is about a father and his family—all migrants in Denmark—who have to contend with the fact that the patriarch is intent on defying death, through cryonics. It is interesting when it gets into the family dynamics, but the film lacks any real depth about cryonics itself—Is it a science or a pseudoscience? Is it an inherently capitalist scam that banks on our fear of death and illness? Why is this family giving this man a pass with this hairbrained scheme to live forever? We don’t really get any answers. I understand why it was not nominated.
Of the nominated films, the one that I enjoyed very much without liking its subject at all was Yamazaki’s Instruments of a Beating Heart. It is a simple film about a very young girl in an elementary school in Japan, who is single-minded in her quest to be part of an orchestra who has just been tasked to provide a musical number welcoming new students to the school. Reading through some of the comments about the film, I was astounded by quite a number who voiced such tender concern for the protagonist, Ayame. They cared when she cried. They cared when she bungled her audition to play an instrument. They cared when she was given a bit of a dressing down by her music teacher. And I was like—what is everybody talking about? That girl needed to be taken down a notch, because she is going to grow up like a Japanese versionof Tracy Flick. She is an annoying and assuming kid who does not do well at her tasks, and cries all throughout the film because she doesn’t get what she wants. Then when she gets another chance, and still does badly, she is always late and never practices, and then when gets reprimanded, she cries crocodile tears. As far as I’m concerned that music teacher said what needed to be said. [And the boy Haruka also totally deserved that spot, and I’m with Ide all the way.] I understand why the film is nominated.
I loved Bill Morrison’s Incident—although “loved” might be the wrong word that describes my respect for this short documentary. It is a feat of assemblage, piecing together all sorts of surveillance footage around the incident of a black man shot to death by police. What you see ultimately convinces you about how rigged the system is with regards racial profiling, and the easy escape of denial policemen resort to when they bow to their murderous instincts. I understand why the film is nominated.
I also loved Molly O’Brien’s The Only Girl in the Orchestra, because it is a profile about a talented musician who is playfully wary about being profiled—but is game enough to let the cameras get a peek into her storied life anyway. The thing is, double bassist Orin O’Brien deserves this attention because her life as a member of New York Philarmonic has been truly trailblazing. She was hired by Leonard Bernstein in 1966 as the first female musician in the orchestra, and became the focus of much media interest and fascination because of that. She is now retired, and in her late 80s—but insists no fuss should be made about her, preferring instead to put a spotlight on her family, her students, her friends, and her colleagues. Which makes her doubly worthy of a documentary. I understand why the film is nominated.
Then there is Smriti Mundhra’s I Am Ready, Warden, which follows the last days in a Texas death row for inmate John Henry Ramirez, who robbed a convenience store when he was a young man, and killing its attendant in the process by riddling him with bullets. He soon fled to Mexico, stayed there for many years, but was eventually arrested and sent back to the U.S. to face prosecution, eventually landing him with capital punishment. But the real story is about his “rehabilitation,” and how he would soon seek out forgiveness from the son of the man he killed, and also demonstrably mending his life by becoming a “Christian.” That turn towards the evangelical in the middle was what left me in a lurch, because it left such a bad taste in the mouth—making the entire thing sound like Evangelical Christian propaganda. What a scam. This is probably the worst film in the whole Oscars shortlist for documentary shorts. I don’t understand why the film is nominated.
Here is my ranking of all the documentary short films, including the unnominated titles:
[1] Keeper
[2] Incident
[3] Chasing Roo
[4] The Only Girl in the Orchestra
[5] Planetwalker
[6] Instruments of a Beating Heart
[7] Seat 31: Zooey Zephyr
[8] Makayla’s Voice: A Letter to the World
[9] The Quilters
[10] Eternal Father
[11] Until He’s Back
[12] A Swim Lesson
[13] I Am Ready, Warden
Unseen by me:
[14] Death by Numbers
[15] Once Upon a Time in Ukraine
Labels: documentaries, film, life, short films
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Saturday, January 25, 2025
10:26 PM |
From Courage to Cicatrice
Part 1 of the 2024 Oscar Shorts Considered
Every time Oscar season comes—this usually starts around November and ends around the time the annual Oscar Awards telecast gets held, which is around early March—I would embark on a months-long movie marathon popularly called the Oscars Death Race.
It’s so-called because all participants—usually cinephiles like me who want some structure around our fervent movie-watching—have to catch all the films anticipated to get some Oscar nominations before that particular announcement rolls around mid-January. [A lot of what we watch don’t even receive any nominations, which leads to a round of griping online—“What do you mean Luca Guadagnino’s Challengers did not receive any nomination, but Jacques Audiard’s execrable Emilia Perez got thirteen?” “What? Nicole Kidman did not get nominated for her best role to date in Babygirl?” “I knew Angelina Jolie was a longshot for a nomination for Maria, but I’m still surprised.” “All We Imagine as Light was robbed!”]
When the nominations finally hit, we embark on catching all the remaining films nominated before the telecast itself, in a fervent race to watch them all, and it’s not always easy, especially if you don’t live in the United States. Every year, there are white whales—which are films that are almost impossible to watch, because their release dates are atrocious, or the filmmakers for some reason just choose to hold on to them without viable distribution. For the 2024-2025 season, that has got to be the full-length documentary Porcelain War, and the documentary short Death by Numbers, which, as far as ordinary cinephiles are concerned, do not really exist. [I have since bought a ticket for an online February screening of Porcelain War, which apparently does exist. And when it was still on the short list, Eno was also something I planned to watch online—because I was intrigued by the idea that it utilized a computer program which selects footage and edits the film so that a different version is shown each time it is screened. But its online distributors did not make it easy to buy a ticket. So when it failed to get a nomination last January 23, I just willingly let it go, even if I am a huge fan of the documentaries of Gary Hustwitt.] Then there are The Brutalist, September 5, Nickel Boys, and I’m Still Here, which are out-of-reach for non-U.S. death racers simply because their distributors are, for a lack of a better term, stupid. So sometimes we make do with so-called “cam” copies of these films, pirated via a camcorder in a movie theater, because once you are on a death race track, you have to do everything you can to get to the finish line. Even watch bad copies of them online.
The release of the Oscars shortlists in early December is our Thanksgiving—and helps narrow the list down, because it trims the number of international films, documentary films, and all the shorts [live action, animated, and documentary] to a manageable fifteen each. The Oscar nomination announcement is our Christmas Day, and the Oscar telecast is our New Year—because that day marks the beginning of another film year for most of us. There’s even a website that tracks all the films you have watched, complete with a leaderboard. [As of this writing, I am at #11 worldwide, with 96% of all nominated films already screened by me.]
Why do I do this? Because I’m a masochist. And because I truly love film. And because without this structure, I would not watch titles that are definitely out of my comfort zone.
Having said all that, I have a particular interest in following all the short films in contention. I like short films. The best ones manage to convey with gravity their themes in ten, or twenty, or thirty minutes—sometimes better than feature-length films which are four or five times longer in terms of running time. For film year 2024, out of the shortlists released last December, I managed to see almost all the titles in the live action and documentary shorts categories, and everything in the animated short category.
The five nominated live action short films are Anuja [d. Adam J. Graves], I’m Not a Robot [d. Victoria Warmerdam], The Last Ranger [d. Cindy Lee], A Lien [d. Sam Cutler-Kreutz and David Cutler-Kreutz], and The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent [d. Nebojša Slijepčević]—a great list for the simple reason that it did not include Dovecote, which was the worst film in the short list, a one-shot mess that starred Zoe Saldana as an inmate in a Venice prison for women that seemed to mistake its cinematographic dexterity with depth. It was awful. [Saldana, alas, stars in two of 2024’s most maligned, but strangely Oscar-considered, movies: this one, and Emilia Perez.]
The other unnominated films run the gamut of excellence deprived of recognition to truly awful exercises of the form. I was very surprised that Àlex Lora Cercos’s The Masterpiece did not get a nomination, given that it has a lot of Parasite vibes to it—including the house the story is set in, and the story revolving around a small clash between the privileged and the poor. I like its conceit that it is a clash over a painting, but whether or not which party gets the painting in the end, this does not matter at all, because the painting is a MacGuffin. The subtext of the film is the story: the contrast in material culture between a rich couple and a couple of scraps men; the posture each camp instinctively take towards the other in terms of “safety”; the lackadaisical way the rich have with their excess and “trash,” which the poor, all intentional, feast on as a source for living; and the power dynamics on display when fighting over what “seems” valuable. What intrigued me about the short film is the way the camera lingers on the younger scraps man as he looks with some befuddlement at the older one, who just made the choice that ended the short film. Was the look in anger? Or relief? I think that’s the invitation the film gifts us to consider its thesis. As for me, I think the right choice was made. [It would be difficult to sell that painting, anyway, without a certificate of its provenance.]
I also liked Dani Feixas’ Paris 70, a tender antidote to most grim Alzheimer’s drama out there—and the short film truly earns it with its pace, its characterization, its story—about a son who finds a way to humor his ailing mother by succumbing to her dreams of traveling to other places. I also liked Portia A. Buckley’s Clodagh, about a nun who discovers a talented young dancer in her congregation, and how it limns the borders of integrity, however small. Where do we draw the line at a lie, especially if it benefits us? Are there small lies and big lies?
The other unnominated films in the live action short list felt mid—if mildly involving in some places, but generally falling flat. The surprising thing about TJ O’Grady-Peyton’s Room Taken, about a homeless man who starts living in the house of a blind woman, is that it is not a horror film at all, but bends over backwards to make its disturbing tale a fable of humanism. Mohammed Almughanni’s An Orange from Jaffa, about an Israeli taxi driver who takes in as fare a Palestinian man who has difficulty crossing a checkpoint, does not really do much with its embedded tension. Jean de Meuron’s Edge of Space—which is a period film set at the height of the US-Soviet space race in the 1960s, and follows an ambitious USAF test pilot who is recruited by NASA for a suborbital mission in an X-15 hypersonic rocket-powered aircraft—is strangely cold and uninvolving for a space race story, and the only thing that carries it is the painstaking attention to detail, and to image. The worst of the lot, aside from Marco Perego Saldana’s Dovecote, is Pavel Sýkora and Viktor Horák’s The Compatriot, an ill-conceived drama about a widower at the height of the Nazi occupation of the former Czechoslovakia, who gets an unannounced visit by an SS officer—with the only thing the two having in common being their Sudeten origins. It felt very much like a typical Oscar bait story—except that this time around, the Academy did not bite. There’s also Jens Kevin Georg’s Crust, a very loose adaptation of Kafka’s “Metamorphosis,” which follows a boy trying to prove his mettle by getting his first scar—something that everyone in his strange family seems to value above all else. Its telling is so offbeat though that I was more repulsed than entertained, and it was actually a relief when it was over. I have not seen Robert Moniot’s The Ice Cream Man, but the reviews online have not been kind—which might be why its filmmakers have chosen not to release the film in a suitable manner.
Of the nominated live action shorts, I did not expect Lee’s The Last Ranger to get the nod—although its depiction of a true story involving the fight against animal poachers in Africa might have swayed liberal-leaning Academy members with its important environmental message. [Sometimes, it’s really about the synopsis.] The story follows a young girl who is introduced to the responsibilities [and even wonder] of a game reserve by the last remaining ranger in their community—but soon the two are ambushed by poachers intent on harming the rhinos in the ranger’s keeping for their horns. During the fateful encounter, the young girl also discovers a terrible secret—a twist I knew was coming from the moment the film began. It’s not a bad film—it just feels like an important story told in a mediocre way.
I appreciated Graves’ Anuja because it felt like a part and parcel of 2024’s cinematic trend of following the travails of Indian women [a list that would include Santosh, All We Imagine as Light, and Laapataa Ladies—all of them unique and involving highlights of Indian cinema last year], but compared to these films, this short one felt like a breath of fresh air, simply because of its optimism. The story centers on two plucky sisters working in a garment factory and living on their own, but both soon face a decision they have to make at film’s end, which would alter their very lives. I make it sound ominous, but it isn’t. It is a film cloaked in hope—and springing from a story that has groundings in truth—and this quality makes it an endearing watch. It doesn’t have much of a punch, truth to tell, and it might even be forgettable, but its heart is in the right place.
Warmerdam’s I’m Not a Robot, on the other hand, is a serio-comic story about a woman who, while listening to music on her computer, discovers the program rebooting. This forces her to accomplish a series of CAPTCHA tests—which, to her chagrin, she fails again and again and again, leading her to entertain the disturbing notion that she might actually be a robot. The short film starts off as a commentary on our increasingly AI-infected lives, but it takes a sharp turn and becomes a rumination on relationships and the things we do to find compatibility in others—a turn that’s not exactly well-handled, but it’s entertaining enough, and the film is a hoot from beginning to end.
Cutler-Kreutz’s A Lien is the film from among the lot that feels like very much like it has been grabbed from the most contemporary headlines. It follows a bi-racial couple and their child as they arrive on the day of their green card interview, but they are soon confronted with a dangerous immigration process that’s actually quite common among agents working for the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement [or ICE]—the taking into immediate custody, and then deportation, of “illegal aliens” who are, in fact, in the very process of legalizing their stay under the very blessings of immigration authorities. It is slice-of-life story whose tension comes from the unfairness of the situation we behold, and the film’s effectivity comes from the deft handling of that tension.
But the one live action short film that moved and disturbed me the most was Slijepčević’s The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent, because its story is one that needed to be told, and because its narrative conceit indicts its viewers about the possibilities of courageous action when confronted with evil. We are told that the story is inspired by the actions of an actual hero from the Bosnian Wars in the early 1990s—that of Tomo Buzov, a passenger on a Belgrade-Bar train, which was stopped in the village of Štrpci in 1993 by the Serbian White Eagles paramilitary group. The paramilitary unit, under the command of Milan Lukić, subsequently pulled away 18 Bosniak Muslims and one Croat from among the passengers, who were then eventually massacred. Buzov was the sole non-Bosniak passenger on the train who tried to stand up against the attackers—and was also taken away to be massacred with the rest. I cannot explain the conceit of the film without taking away its power, but it is very much an experiment in point-of-view, which also asks us a question: you might think you will take a courageous stand in the face of evil—but will you really? As one Letterbxd member puts it, the film is about “the fragile balance of who we want to be and who we [really] are.”
Here is my ranking of all the live action short films, including the unnominated titles:
[1] The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent
[2] A Lien
[3] I’m Not a Robot
[4] The Masterpiece
[5] Paris 70
[6] Clodagh
[7] Anuja
[8] Room Taken
[9] The Last Ranger
[10] An Orange from Jaffa
[11] Edge of Space
[12] Crust
[13] The Compatriot
[14] Dovecote
[15] The Ice Cream Man
Labels: film, life, oscar, short films
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Thursday, January 23, 2025
12:45 PM |
Setting the Record Straight
Just to set the record straight, and why I became involved in this. In 2010, I was one of two Philippine delegates chosen as fellows to the International Writing Program in Iowa City, which just became a UNESCO City of Literature in 2008. When I was there, it dawned on me that this distinction was also fitting for Dumaguete. Since I came back from the U.S., I’ve been advocating for this every chance I got, including at several editions of the 6200 PopUp sponsored by DTI, and in all my lectures about Dumaguete literature in seminars and fora, including one on the creative economy at Silliman University for the NCCA. In 2014, I even curated an exhibit at Silliman Library titled “Cities of Literature,” which traced the link between Dumaguete and Iowa, with the blessings of the International Writing Program’s Christopher Merrill. In 2018, prodded by former Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Jacqueline Antonio, I prepared a white paper for Mayor Ipe Remollo to determine whether we should apply for City of Music or City of Literature. [You see, only the LGU can apply for UNESCO Creative City.] Naturally, as a writer, my bias was clear. The pandemic put these plans on hold. When I gave a talk about this at the first edition of Dumaguete LitFest in 2024, that propelled DTI Negros Oriental to take the first steps and got me involved in the official application, with the blessings of Mayor Remollo. And that’s the story.Labels: city of literature, cultural work, dumaguete, life
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Wednesday, January 22, 2025
8:35 AM |
Date Blindness
Today, a confessional I’d like to share for National Mental Health Week. You know what I hate the most about ADHD? It’s actually not the executive dysfunction [because I mostly solve that through doubling], it’s the weird mental anomaly we call “date blindness.” I have always had this, but I always thought it was just me being lazy about dates. Like, my ears hear “August,” but my brain makes my hand write down “December.” When I used to make posters for the CAC, I took painstaking care of the playdates I’d put in, recognizing this was always something I’d do, but often I’d still get it wrong and Leo Mamicpic would be the one to gently remind me: “Ian, the show is on February 11. You put in March 24.” Like, that totally happens, all the time. Like I know Silliman was founded in 1901, but I’d still put in “1902.” I really had no idea why and I used to berate myself a lot about it. Until I got diagnosed, and learned about date blindness. Fun, fun, fun! Today is Wednesday, right?Labels: adhd, date blindness, life, mental health
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7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 223.
Labels: poetry
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Tuesday, January 21, 2025
11:00 PM |
A Note for Gratefulness
I will always be grateful for friends who have my back and cheer me on, who are incredibly supportive and who show up, who push me gently when I falter, who believe in me even when I doubt myself, who double for me when my ADHD rears its penchance for executive dysfunction. Today was such a day. Thank you for being there.
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Monday, January 20, 2025
Today, January 20, is the birthday of filmmaker David Lynch who died only a few days ago. It is also Martin Luther King Day and the day a felon is inaugurated to be President of what used to be the most powerful country in the world. It is also the start of National Mental Health Week. And it is also Blue Monday, the day your New Year’s resolutions come to die, and apparently the most depressing day of the year. Take all that as you may.Labels: life
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11:44 AM |
How to Make Baye-Baye
If you hail from Bayawan, down at the southern bend of Negros Oriental, chances are you have grown up eating the city’s foremost delicacy—the baye-baye. Ian has maternal roots in Bayawan, and spent a significant part of his childhood there before the family moved for good to Dumaguete in 1980. He grew up eating the baye-baye, will trust only the ones made by the family of Manang Julia Occena of Barangay Villareal [formerly Balabag]—and until today, he has very specific tastes that determine for him which baye-baye is the real deal.
“Don’t eat the popular and commercial ones you find readily available in stores,” he says with a passion. “They’re rubbish.”
My mother Fennie with Manang Julia in Bayawan in 2017
Manang Julia's baye-baye
The baye-baye is made from roasted glutinous rice, coconut, and sugar that are pounded or ground together, and is often mistaken to be the local equivalent of the espasol. It is not. It is its own unique thing. It is also actually not native to Bayawan, but has roots in Pavia, Iloilo. There was a significant migration of Ilonggos to Bayawan at the turn of the 20th century, owing to agricultural opportunities, which is why many Bayawanons speak Kiniray-a, and baye-baye became a local delicacy. The Bayawan variety though is more starchy, while the Iloilo original is more sticky. [They’re also finished differently, with the Iloilo baye-baye shaped into a roll, while the Bayawan baye-baye is made into a sandwich-shaped cake.]
Ian insists on eating it fresh—because the delicacy quickly turns bad after a day of storage. “Fresh baye-baye is soft and pillowy,” Ian says. He also insists that its stickiness should be well-balanced with the pinipig powder that coats the entire thing.
A few years ago, in 2018, Ian’s family found themselves back in Bayawan for a visit—and somehow also found themselves making a trek to old Balabag, to search out Manang Julia where she still lived in her advanced years in her hut, already blind from old age—but still directing her family to make the delicacy that has been their tradition for generations. The baye-baye they bought that day in 2018 still retained the same sticky goodness from memory.
Last year, one member of Manang Julia’s family came over to Dumaguete to demonstrate the making of baye-baye at Adorno Galeria y Café at the Locsin Heritage House, masterminded by proprietor Jansen Tan, with the whole event made possible by the Bayawan City Tourism Office, and through the efforts of Pristine Martinez-Raymond, the first lady of the city.
For one day last August, Manang Mercy Barroca let us into her world of baye-baye making. We watched her hands mix glutinous rice and coconut into something more than food: a story, a memory, a taste of heritage. Manang Mercy’s reputation preceded her: she carried not just the skill but the heart of her in-laws’ legacy, a lineage intertwined with the rhythms of mortar and pestle, with the scent of toasted rice hanging in the air.
The stage for this demonstration was set with care. In the center stood the tools of her trade: the “lusokan,” a mortar and pestle made from casay wood. Casay, Manang Mercy explained, is not just a traditional implement; it was necessity. Other woods, though abundant, cannot promise the food-safe quality that casay does. And like any artist, Manang Mercy’s tools carried their own history—her mortar was twenty years old; the pestle was sixty. It was a lineage of objects meeting a lineage of hands.
To understand baye-baye is to begin with the grain. Glutinous rice, whole and unassuming, will find its place in the “kalaha,” the wok. Over steady flame, Manang Mercy stirred the ingredients, her movements deliberate, patient. Soon the grains turned golden, releasing a nutty fragrance that danced through the air and signaled their transformation. These toasted grains, tinged with fire, were milled into a fine powder, soft as talcum.
But baye-baye does not rest on rice alone. There is the coconut, grated and cooked down in its milk with brown sugar until it becomes caramelized perfection. The mixture, dark as molasses and glistening with unctuous richness, held the promise of flavor. “It shouldn’t be dry,” Manang Mercy said. “It should still shine.”
The marriage of these ingredients is where the craft truly begins. The glutinous rice flour and the caramelized coconut are mixed in the lusokan, where they are pounded and rotated in a ritualistic rhythm. No white streaks of flour should remain; no hint of separation should betray the harmony of the ingredients.
Manang Mercy demonstrating how to make baye-baye
Mixing baye-baye ingredients in a demonstration at Adorno Cafe
Manang Mercy worked with quiet confidence. Her hands guided the pestle, her movements precise yet unhurried. She knew when to stop, when to let the mixture rest, and when to press forward. In her hands, the lusokan seemed alive, an extension of her will. When the texture was just right—smooth and pliable—Manang Mercy reached for a rectangular plastic container, its surface dusted with flour. She pressed the mass into it, shaping it with a sandok until it took the form of a rectangle. With a practiced flip, she plopped it onto a plate, where it laid like a gift. The final act was a careful slicing the delicacy into squares, each piece a testament to the culinary craft that birthed it.
In a world rushing toward convenience, where food often loses its soul in the quest for speed, Manang Mercy, with her carrying on the traditional way of making baye-baye, stood as beacon of patience, of reverence for tradition. Her baye-baye was more than a snack; it was a connection to the past, a bridge to the future. The lusokan, the casay wood, the golden rice—each element held a fragment of memory, each strike of the pestle an affirmation that some things are worth preserving. Bayawan’s cultural stewards understood this, which is why they facilitated that demonstration. Baye-baye, humble as it may seem, is a symbol of resilience, of community, of the enduring power of tradition.
As we left Adorno Café, the scent of toasted rice and caramelized coconut still clung to the air, a reminder that sometimes the most profound stories are told not in words but in the simple, deliberate act of making something with love, and from tradition.
Labels: food, heritage, negros
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