Then & Now & Then

Back then, what you had was padalan or pasali, Bikol words for the more familiar Filipino term palabas. This referred to any film showing in the small barangay where you grew up.

This included the comedy flick Max & Jess featuring Panchito and Dolphy shown one summer afternoon in your grade school’s Industrial Arts building. It was probably led by your mother, who was then in charge of raising funds for the school’s non-formal education.

The movie was shown using a projector which flashed the film reel to a very big white mantel probably borrowed from your grandmother’s kitchen collection locked in the platera of the dakulang harong in the libod. The tickets were probably sold at P1.50 each for two features that provided some three hours of quality entertainment to your barrio folk.

There was also the health documentary sponsored by the Ministry of Health top-biled by then Minister Alfredo Bengzon, who gave out health advisories for the barangays. This was in the early 80s before Marcos stepped out of Malacañang. When it was shown in the Triangle, the open barangay hall, it rained heavily, much to the chagrin of some barangay folks who just went home disappointed. The others who did not leave the show made do with umbrellas and raincoats. But back then, the big telon was enough for them to get hooked: talk of being able to watch something on a big screen once in a blue moon. The documentary featured practices that can be adopted by the barangay folk to avoid diarrhea and dysentery, diseases that can be acquired from unsanitary and unhygienic toilet practices.

Then, there were the nightly treats of Betamax showing on black and white and later colored TV monitors in three key areas in the barangay.

There was one in the house of the Molata family which catered to the Baybay and Iraya residents. There, movies were shown inside the cramped sala of the Molatas, which was just inside their big retail store.

Bruce Lee

There was also the one owned by Tiyo Magno San Andres, a distant relative of your parents, who would clear his own bodega of grains and household supplies to make space for the nightly flicks of Bruce Lee, Dante Varona or Ramon Revilla, among many others. But you hardly had the chance to get in there, probably because you already enjoyed the free entry in your relatives’ “bigger movie house.”

This was your Auntie Felia’s bodega movie house where mostly new tapes were shown nightly for the entertainment of the barangay. Used as warehouse for copra transported in your Uncle Harben’s 10-wheeler truck from Tinambac to Naga, that place was in fact the biggest movie house because it could house 75 moviegoers or more at one time, particularly when it had no copra.

Yet, from time to time, moviegoers also sat on top of copra sacks even piled 10 times high while they revelled in Redford White’s antics or Cachupoy’s capers, or while they were kept alive and awake till midnight, enjoying the burugbugan or suruntukan in the movies of Fernando Poe, Jr., Rudy Fernandez, Rey Malonzo or George Estregan and a host of many other action stars. Talk of orchestra and balcony seating at the time.

Aside from the word-of-mouth shared by folks in the barangay, the nightly flicks were announced having their titles written  in chalk on your cousin’s green Alphabet Board displayed in front of their two-storey house just in front of Triangle, which for a long time served as the barangay market.

There was a time when the Acuñas’ bodega served as the official theater for the barangay, catering to the nightly entertainment of the folks—sometimes families (parents and children)—from Baybay to Pantalan and from Tigman and Banat, two bigger sitios situated at the two opposite ends from the Triangle.

When new tapes were brought in for the same movie house, you could expect a Standing Room Only; therefore, you could expect to be uncomfortable being seated or haggling for an inch of space with children your age, some of them even smelling rich of kasag (crabs).

Baad taga-Baybay ta parong-parong pang marhay an pinamanggihan. Linabunan na kasag tapos dai palan nagdamoy. (Probably from Sitio Baybay who had boiled crabs for supper and forgot to wash their hands afterwards.) Nom!

Among others, the Acuña movie house had the most strategic location, serving as the hub where most of the residents converged.

But that movie house would serve the barangay but only up to the time when your folks decided to settle and stay more permanently in the city. The kids, you and your cousins, were all growing up or had to grow up—so some things had to go. Besides, the place had only gotten smaller. (But certainly it was you who had grown bigger.) 

You had been initiated to the world of the movies at a very young age.

Growing up in that small barangay with all these movies you saw, you readily recall the pictures in your head: The loud and bright colors of the characters in Max & Jess, inspired from a komiks cartoon, only complemented the loud mouths of Dolphy and Panchito who raved and ranted against each other all throughout the movie.

There was also the sepia appearance of the Ministry of Health’s documentary flashed on the barangay telon, which only made it look like a news reel further back from the 1960s. You realize now that it was rather a mockumentary because at the time people were being taught on health practices under the rain, which had only ironically endangered their health.

And of course, the many varied colors in the smaller screen of your relatives where you probably saw—through the movies—all the worlds possible.

Now what readily comes to mind? You had the medieval heroine Hundra, which featured axing and butchering of warriors and amazons for most of the film; and the sharp colors of the characters in the animation Pete’s Dragon, which you must have watched with your cousins a hundred times only because unlike the rented copies used for the nightly showing, this was an original Betamax tape sent by the Acuña relatives from the United States.

There was also the flying dog in the Never-Ending Story; and the cyborgs in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator.

And of course there was the wave of melodramas favored by the women in your household probably because most of them were tearjerkers—from Dina Bonnevie’s Magdusa Ka to Maricel Soriano’s Pinulot Ka Lang sa Lupa to Jaypee de Guzman’s Mga Batang Yagit to Helen Gamboa’s Mundo Man Ay Magunaw, and a hundred other (melo)dramas.

These were the movies peopled by characters you would remember; characters whom you would, every now and then, find or seek in others; characters whom you would, in later years, see yourself become.

Back then, you got to enjoy a movie and even memorize the scenes in it only because it came once in a blue moon, as it were.

You always looked forward to one weekend when your parents would bring you all to watch the latest release in Bichara Theater in downtown Naga.

The whole week you looked forward to that Saturday or Sunday they promised because it surely would come with a date at the Naga Restaurant where you would be treated to bowls of steaming asado mami and toasted or steamed siopao—not to mention a probable new pair of shoes or a cool shirt from Zenco Footstep or Sampaguita Department Store.

But now, you have already brought home an audio-visual entertainment. You will watch a movie from your USB to your LCD TV, full HD, complete with the frills of the latest technology. Now the movie is only yours to play—and play back again and again and again, as many times as you like.

Back then, if you liked some scene in the film which you’d liked to watch again, you’d have to wait till the next feature so you would wait until you spend some three more hours inside the theater. But now, you won’t worry anymore. With your latest downloaded movie flashing on your 40” LCD screen, you can freeze that scene and relish the drama or action—complete with subtitles—to your heart’s content.

Back then, watching a movie was something to talk about with your siblings or cousins when you got back from the city. Now, watching a Torrentzed film from your USB drive is what you can only do because it would be so hard for you to talk to them who are thousands of cities away from where you are.

King of Pain

I saw Pepeng Kaliwete starring Fernando Poe, Jr. when I was a first-grader.  In those days, Mother was fond of movies that on weekends, she would bring her children to downtown Naga and there we watched all kinds of movies—in Emily, Bichara, Alex or Vic—the movie theaters owned by the Bicharas in Naga City.

Nothing reminds me of the movie except cringing at the sight of Pepe’s hands being twisted by a moving wooden motor—by the goons of the kontrabida led by the proverbial villain Paquito Diaz. Who can ever forget the ngilo just watching that scene? Since then, I have looked forward to watching FPJ’s movies.

Enough said.

Some thirty years later, I feel fine because it is now official. This year, President Benigno Aquino III conferred a posthumous National Artist award to the late Fernando Poe, Jr., King of Philippine Movies.  Aquino’s Proclamation No. 435 only confirmed an earlier declaration of Poe as National Artist in 2006, two years after Poe’s death. But at the time controversy took over.

I recall the award was refused by FPJ’s family from then President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, whom they thought, rigged the 2004 elections in which FPJ ran for president. This year, the family has accepted the recognition from the current president.

I suppose the national recognition of this prolific artist is appropriate. For one, a National Artist is one who has helped “build a Filipino sense of nationhood through the content and form of their works.”  Through some 50 years of his career in the movie industry, FPJ had been a household word for his honest portrayals of the plight of the Filipino, particularly the underprivileged and the marginalized.

An average Filipino like me knows an FPJ movie or the role he portrayed simply because he portrayed the life of the ordinary people, who compose the lot of the population. Whether in film biographies—from Pepeng Kaliwete to Eseng ng Tondo or other movies he produced, directed and acted in, it's he who sacrifices for the other person.

Up to his sixties, FPJ’s roles had been consistently that—particularly favoring the underprivileged or defending the marginalized, but all the while lionizing the good. If at all, FPJ’s movies melodramas helped define the generation to which I belong. But because his roles have been mimicked and parodied by other fellow actors, it only goes to show they touched a chord in the Filipino everyman.  

In some 250 movies where he probably punched all the thugs and gave back the stolen candy bars to their rightful owners, his character was not only our muscle but also our soul, a Robin Hood of sorts in our part of the world who delivered justice for the poor because it was denied them by the privileged and the greedy. His manner of delivering justice the Christian way did not only save us from boredom or tedium, but also “redeemed” us.  And for this, FPJ can hardly be replicated.

We confer on him the award because we seek to immortalize a paragon of the good—whose pains and struggles can inspire us to always seek what is just. We choose to do this because we humans need a(nother) Christ-like figure whom we can emulate.  We take to placing one FPJ as such only because we need to remind ourselves that in everything we do, or despite our perennial struggles, we can always choose to do the good.

The Little Prince & We

Every writer has some purpose inherent in his work, a mindset to which his ideas and ideals gravitate. In one good book, this strikes as some insight which enables the readers to see the author as an advocate of some truth.

While such truth is universal, embracing an aspect of human life, it is only when the reader realizes this truth that the author is seen as his interpreter, his means to see himself.

French author Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is no less than this author. His popular novel The Little Prince (1945) is just but one of his greatest revelations of the self, much as he reveals himself.

Considered a fairy story ostensibly written for children, The Little Prince is the type of book immediately dismissed as “charming,” something only delightful and attractive. Others insist that it may not be necessary for one to finish reading the work to interpret what it sends him to know. The book may be simply for children in each of us.

Children are said to face the world by themselves. They always ask questions and they never run out of them. They want to know almost everything, just like the little prince who wants to know everything about the earth.

In The Little Prince, the characters that the prince meets one by one represent the influence on the mind of a child: the snake the fox and so many others shaped his view of the earth in many ways.

Chapter 16 begins: "So then the seventh planet was the Earth". On the Earth, he starts out in the desert and meets a snake that claims to have the power to return him to his home planet (A clever way to say that he can kill people, thus "Sending anyone he wishes back to the land from whence he came.")

The prince’s meeting with the snake delineates the author’s concept of isolation—desert imaging the loneliness or more aptly the dryness of everything. This resonates in the author’s distance from his family and his dangerous position as pilot unsure of his future feats during the war.

When the snake tells the prince, “It is lonely among men,” the author affirms that some men are unhappy even with their peers, as if to say, loneliness knows no favourites. The presence of the snake applies to the author’s judgment of evil—as one who confuses people and creates chaos in human life, but also one who will eventually make him realize his weakness or strength.

As the little prince wanders in the desert, vivid perception about the author and his work are seen. When the prince meets the flows in the same desert, the author elaborates that all things—short joys, isolation, and intense emotions brought about by evil—are so useless if man does not find meanings from them. Man has to transcend all circumstances with them to find meaning for himself.

In their conversation, the little prince comes to know from the rose about the nature of men—or what men really are. The reply of the flower strongly tells of human nature: “But no one never knows where to find them. The wind blows them away. They have no roots and that makes their life more difficult.

The prince meets a desert-flower, who, having seen a caravan pass by, tells him that there are only a handful of men on Earth and that they have no roots, which lets the wind blow them around making life hard on them.

Children, the author suggests, should realize through time that while life is fleeting, men have no constancy in their lives. Their decisions often have no permanence.

As the prince goes further, he now finds himself alone in the desert. When he speaks, an echo answers him: “Be my friends. I am all alone.” “I am all alone— all alone— all alone.” This scene makes for man’s call for companionship, for by his very nature, man is virtually made for companionship. Needless, man is social by nature. He cannot live by himself or alone. He needs the company of other people. He must interact with other people. Though the world does seem unfriendly, he needs to.

The little prince climbs the highest mountain he has ever seen. From the top of the mountain, he hopes he will see the whole planet and find people, but he sees only a desolate, craggy landscape. When the prince calls out, his echo answers him, and he mistakes it for the voices of humans. He thinks Earth is unnecessarily sharp and hard, and he finds it odd that the people of Earth only repeat what he says to them.

Here, it is as if de St. Exupéry says every person must reach out; for he will have no grasp of the wholeness of the world unless he reaches out to others. With others he may be able to find (the) meaning (of things).

After wandering the desert for a while, the little prince sees signs of civilization, and “all roads lead to the abodes of men.” There he meets a flower very much like his flower in his own planet.

Eventually, the prince comes upon a whole row of rosebushes, and is downcast because he thought that his rose was the only one in the whole universe. He begins to feel that he is not a great prince at all, as his planet contains only three tiny volcanoes and a flower he now thinks of as common. He lies down in the grass and weeps.

Of course, he is saddened to know that his flower is only one among many others, and later realized that he need not brag about it. To know and realize one is not entirely different from millions of others saps confidence. One therefore realizes there is nothing here to brag or boast about.

The author places the helpless child—a little prince—such a minute character as his focal point of introspection, his looking glass to articulate that the universe is too vast, if not too profound, for man to simply ponder.