qiyamah trailer

Here's the first of a series of trailers for Qiyamah.

the world is grey.

This is the first of three posters that we are developing for our new film.

a house of cats

I live in a two-bedroom bungalow with twelve cats. Upon entering the door, a tall bookshelf stands on your left and on the right next to the front window is another book shelf the height of a console containing more books, DVDs and memorabilia. Further to the right is the television with a DVD player, and a magazine stand. A framed poster of Krzysztof Kiewslowski's Red hangs on the wall. There is no sofa. On occasions, like movie marathon evenings, a rug is laid on the floor with large throw pillows.  

A four-seater dining table occupies much of the dining space next to a small, grey refrigerator. Opposite the table a framed photo of my ancestor Datu Namli adorns the wall next to a certificate. Then there is the modest kitchen with well-stacked cabinets, a microwave oven, electric stove and other essentials. The toilet and bath is positioned at the rear of the house, with litter boxes lining up to the back door. 

I converted one bedroom into a home office. A calendar featuring hundreds of cats welcomes you to the room. An iMac sits on a white table together with external hard drives, a mug containing pens, markers, scissors and a ruler, a notebook, a stack of scratch paper and half ream of copier paper. Adjacent to the table, a printer sits on a sturdy box containing documents. A brown sofa bed takes up the opposite side of the room next to a cabinet and plastic boxes holding production equipment. The second bedroom is literally the "bedroom." 

The cats are strictly indoor cats. They freely roam the house, except for the office which I keep closed at all times. Now and then I allow a cat or two to observe me at work provided they do not saunter on the table, lie down on the keyboard, or pounce on the monitor. 

On mornings the house is covered with a thin film of cat hair. I bought a vacuum cleaner a while back so that things would be a lot easier but the cats hate the sound of it. They go nuts whenever I use it. So I am content with the old traditional method. Damp rug soaked in a vinegar, baking soda and water solution. That way I keep my cats' sanity intact. 

Visitors would always remark, "Andami niyong pusa (You have lots of cats)." My sister and friend Ally even suggested that I keep them in cages. Que barbaridad! "Hikain ka (You're asthmatic)." "The hair is everywhere." "It smells pee in here." They contended. To placate them, all meals are done in the garden. "No hair here," I would argue. "Would you like a cat?" I asked Ally. Two nights later, he brought home one of my black cats and named him Damian.

When I decided that I wanted a cat, I already psyched myself for the daily Brownian movement of hair in house. Second, no furniture is safe despite the scratch boxes at each corner of the house. The sofa bed has been surgically dissected. A large throw pillow, my mother's gift to me when I was ten years old, has been pulverized. The cats have scratched off the paint atop the shelf next to the front window. The male cats have taken turns to peeing on it to demonstrate, "This view is mine and mine alone." And for reasons that still escape me, they have peed on one of the iron plates of my stove. Is this their way of saying, "The kibbles is starting to bore us"? 

But who is complaining? I signed up for this. I even named my production company Reckless Natarajan Pictures in honor of my first cat. So in the next couple of years I will have to contend with cat hair, the smell of pee, the regular and expensive visits to the vet, getting scratched by Basmati and Chino during bath time, and my cats making a playground of the house in the middle of the night. 

Aslan curled up on my grandmother's brass heirloom.

partying in bacolod

I like Bacolod for a lot of reasons. The food. The hospitality. The awesome view from the plane when it touches down (it reminded me of my trip to Iowa in 2008 for my writing residency). And of course, the parties. 

I was in Bacolod in mid February for the fourth edition of the Cinema Rehiyon Film Festival, a gathering of regions-based (regional if you may like) filmmakers and their supporters to showcase the past year's harvest of films from anywhere outside of Manila. For four days, we watched films and at night we discussed the films as we partied.

Among the highlights of the Festival was the official party which was held at the Art District in Lopues Mandalangan. One filmmaker quipped that it's the reason why filmmakers would always want to attend Cinema Rehiyon. "The Festival throws the best party," he said. "I think it gets equal preparation as the festival programming," I joked. The party is getting quite a reputation. And enjoyed it I did. 

The party is just getting started.

Filmmaker Mes de Guzman and film programmer Philip Cheah.

Davao's pride Arnel Mardoquio, Ed Lejano of Manila, and Cebu's Bambi Beltran and Victor Villanueva.

Busong's Auraeus Solito poses with a friend.

Film director Peque Gallaga in a light moment with actress Cherie Gil.

Southern Exposure. Ivan Zaldarriaga, Arnel Barbarona, Adjani Arumpac, myself and Christian Linaban.

Thanks to Lawrence Fajardo and Arnel Barbarona for the photos. 

we have a picture lock.

After toiling for weeks in the editing room with my editor Arnel Barbarona, we have a picture lock. It is ten minutes shorter than we have projected. Editing on site during the shoot made our work easier. At the end of each day, we assembled the shots so that judgment calls could be made whether scenes worked or not, or if it was necessary to do a reshoot. This scenario is very efficient when shooting in a distant location where a reshoot posted logistical and financial difficulties. We shot the film in Cotabato City which was a seven-hour drive from my base station (it used to be only four hours away but heavy road construction made the travel grueling). 

Now, we're doing color correction (or, what's the appropriate term since the film is in black and white?) and synching sound. In about a week, we will start subtitling and sound design.

Here's the first look at my new film Qiyamah.

it's a wrap

We just finished the principal photography of Qiyamah in Cotabato City. I'm proud and happy with the outcome. Despite the daily bombings during the shoot, not to mention a coconut falling on the shoulder of one of our lead actors, everybody went home in one piece.

I'm grateful to the barangay officials of Kalanganan II headed by Chair Esmael Samad for the hospitality, to Mayor Japal Guiani, Jr. and the city government of Cotabato for extending logistical and technical support to the production, to the Philippine National Police and Philippine Marines for securing our location, and to the men and women in front and behind the camera I salute you all.

Now we're off to the editing room.  

on location

I've been location hunting for the past two weeks. Three towns in Maguindanao - Buluan, Datu Paglas and Pagalungan - were initially shortlisted because of their diversity in landscape and availability of technical and logistical support from both local government and private sector. But I couldn't stand the heat of Buluan. Datu Paglas poses sound problems (trucks carrying bananas ply the round the clock, causing the earth to shake even if you are miles away). Pagalungan, on the other hand, is full of s****d people.

Then I was able to talk to government representatives in Cotabato (the city of my birth) and the neighboring Datu Odin Sinsuat and they expressed their full support. So Qiyamah will be shot there. I just hope that it wouldn't be a problem to my cast traveling to these locations considering the negative publicity that both places are getting.

fresh start

After all the ranting, heaven has answered my prayers. 2012 ushers in a new film project Qiyamah. In the film, residents of a rural village in Maguindanao are horrified when the sun rises in the West. According to Islamic belief, this phenomenon signals the Apocalypse. As village folk react differently to the situation, a tragedy strikes when one of the residents is raped and her brother brutally murdered as he tries to avenge her. Steep in superstition, the villagers attribute these to the Devil himself. Told from the point of view of six-year-old Musali, Qiyamah reflects on our humanity, what we hold hear and what it means to be alive.

This means I'll be so busy during the first half of the year. I'm on my fourth revision of the script and my work is not done yet. 

affliction

I have been busy lately, lying in bed for hours on end, afflicted with some strange catatonia, contemplating on “What could have been…”

What started out as a very positive year is winding out into what I would swear as the worst year of my life. This is not overstating some facts. I died twice this year. My mother was my world to me. I died with her in September. Two month later, as cinema is life to me, I died again after making a catastrophic film that was, at the very start, a journey on a long road to perdition. All the signs pointed to these directions – my mother’s long stays in the hospital and my constant indecisions in making Cartas de la Soledad – but full of optimism and hope as I always have, well, with the help of mood stabilizers and antidepressants I tried to ignore them. Now they have taken their toll on me. So here I am, still in bed, at five in the afternoon. Thanks to a Bluetooth enabled keyboard I don’t need to walk to my iMac across the room. In the kitchen I could hear some utensils falling on the floor. My cats are having a field day. Captivated by the juicy redness of the fruits of the curacao (tambis) tree, some kids took turns the whole afternoon climbing the tree at the gate. On normal days I would have shouted at them, but now, who cares. Let them have it. The house is a mess. A pigsty would smell so much better. But who’s complaining.

As I’ve said everything was not this grey. The year rolled out to be promising. I traveled around Mindanao as a facilitator for a workshop to help kids in crisis (talk about irony). I went to two international film festivals. I revived this blog and wrote on a constant basis during the first quarter of the year. When I got the grant to make my disastrous sophomore film my entries became infrequent as I busied myself with preparations on the film. I would update my five readers about these preparations every now and then. I shot my film. But the initial shoot was problematic. I dropped some of my crewmembers, made enemies of friends (all my relationships are crumbling anyway, so again, who cares?) and changed location. My mother was in and out of the hospital during this time. She would constantly ask where I was. “Tell your brother to visit me,” my sister would recall, “and perhaps he can bring me a box of prunes.” When she died I was paralyzed. I was already in post-production then. I was editing my film but all creative energies evaporated into thin air. Finally I had to be rescued by “my knight in shining grey MacBook Pro.” Unlike my first film, Cartas de la Soledad was technically problematic. Sound was the greatest problem. I was supposed to have it sound designed by my past designer but when he told me about this film on a drug mule where he was asked to sound design the film for less than a week but he declined, I took it as a hint and went to other people. That proved to be a fatal mistake.  Lacking in discipline and creative solutions, the new sound designer always wanted short cuts. So problematic scenes were dubbed even if simple snipping would have done the trick. I instructed cast members not to deliver lines if they hear any distraction like a passing vehicle or airplane. So unnecessary noise could easily be taken away. Nah! He chose ambient sound that was flat and too generic. As one viewer commented during the gala, the images of the film were gorgeous. The sound, “never mind.” I was almost sued because of this film but I will not talk about it lest I invite a lawsuit again. If there’s anything that I was able to prove in this film, it is that I’m a writer first and foremost. Jury members were impressed with my screenplay. The delegate generale of the Cannes Film Festival who sat in the jury gave his vote for best screenplay to the film. But this would not change the fact that I’m not happy with this film. It’s one of those things that you would want to sweep under the rug, or hide in your closet along with XXX porn magazines and DVDs. What could have been a nice addition to my filmography is now shitty pants in an MRT during rush hour for everybody to smell and judge.

I have been busy lately alright, lying in bed for hours on end, afflicted with some strange catatonia, contemplating on “What a shitty year this has been.” I hope 2012 would be more generous and kind. 

ten, again

Every experience teaches you a lot of lessons. Doing Cartas de la Soledad surely was an excruciating journey but one with tons of valuable lessons. So in the tradition of Limbunan where I listed ten lessons learned, I'm listing not-so-new things that I've realized while doing my latest film.

1. Location is key.
2. Sound will make or break your film.
3. You are bound to make a lot of bad decisions. Blame nobody but yourself. Treat it as an opportunity for growth.
4. Do not cut corners, especially on very crucial matters (like sound).
5. Trust people to do their job well.
6. DSLR is not a magic wand. If it is, it means that the sorcerer is still the master.
7. Sleep is important.
8. Relegate tasks.
9. There should be life outside film.
10. Be realistic when it comes to finances.

cartas desde el infierno

The past few weeks have been hell. As the Cinema One Originals 2011 Digital Film Festival draws closer, I feel my entry Cartas de la Soledad is falling apart, slowly, bit by bit. There have been a lot of last-minute decisions. Not that I regret any of them, but they are agonizing to say the least. Heaven must be punishing me for my sacrilege. My film is transforming into Cartas desde el infierno. 

Until last Thursday, there was no opening sequence to speak of. We shot and re-shot various opening sequences. But none satisfied my producer Sherad for most part and ball-less as I have become, myself too. Or is it because I cannot defend my earlier choice for an opening sequence? I'm not sure if the opening sequence that we have now is even it. The sound design is something. We have to dub a lot of scenes because of the noise, bus tracks and screaming children mostly. Color grading is yet to start. The closing sequence. It's another problem. Is it too contrived? Or too artsy-fartsy? I  don't know. My balls are stuck in my throat right now. I cannot breathe.

The gala presentation is five days away. We're not done yet. I'm writing this as my sound designer figures out what termite sounds like. I'm slowly dying inside and I'm pretty sure I'm going straight to hell. 

goodbye, mommy

My mom passed away during the early hours of September 22. She had been in and out of the hospital this year - the longest hospitalization lasted 75 days. At that time everything pointed to her eventual demise. Aside from the Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease or COPD that she had been battling for the past nine years, there were seizures and infections to contend with, not to mention a life-threatening inflammation of the gall bladder. The inflammation miraculously disappeared after the mystic Apo Bito visited my mother. One of my mother's attending doctors could not offer any logical explanation to the phenomenon. "Thank God it's gone, she is through a lot already," Dr. Nikki said.

My father and sister Coco flew in from Manila to be at Mommy's side. The world stood still for us. Everything focused on Mommy. My father had an extended leave from office. Travel became problematic. I had to cancel several trips including one to an international film festival. Being away would be too much of a hassle so everybody stayed put. The hospital became an extension of the house. The nurses, especially the ones assigned in the ICU, became part of the family. 

"This isn't the end yet," soothsayers comforted us. True enough my mom was discharged from the hospital.

But twenty nine days later, she would again be brought to the hospital. This time I was worried. I am ridiculously superstitious. I believe in powers no science could explain. You see, aside from the comforting words that the soothsayers left us, there was also a warning. "The next time she gets hospitalized, and I hope we are wrong on this, but that would be the end."

Three weeks after my mother's death, I'm still grappling with a new reality. A sad reality that the words "She's resting now" or "Sympathies and Condolences" hardly bring comfort and ease. A reality that I could still not comprehend nor grasp the extend of its power. But one thing is sure now. I'm going to miss you, Mommy. 

howl if you're different

Great atmospheric short animation on being different.

designing a film

I juggle the roles of director and production designer in my films. In Cartas de la Soledad, I will recreate a decrepit villa caught in a time warp. To be shot in Davao City, the house is a typical 1950s style. The interior design is a hodgepodge of styles ranging from the 1950s to the middle 1990s. I'm looking for pieces that will complete the look of the film. I hope you can help me with certain items.

Wall art and furnishing from the 1970s.

Lampshades from the 1970s to the 1980s.

A classic turntable. Turning but not necessarily playing.

A Viewmaster. 

Decorative art of the 1960s to 1980s.

Barcelona, Spain souvenirs from the 1980s to 1990s.

An old cellphone. The larger, the better.

Email me at bidadalihouse@yahoo.com 

happy birthday, madonna!

Madonna is 53.

Three years ago I had the privilege of being in the Madgesty's presence during the Chicago leg of the Sticky and Sweet Tour. I wrote a five-page essay entitled The Pilgrim on the experience. Here's an excerpt.

I scrambled off the bus as soon as it reached the station on Harrison. Chicago was cold all right. I inhaled the dry air.  I walked towards Halsted Street. My hostel was two blocks away, occupying the second and third floors of an old building in the Greek part of the city, above a restaurant called Parthenon. I reached it in five minutes, thanks to my impeccable sense of direction, an ability my friends are jealous of —“What are you a walking compass?” A friend once remarked— because I can be more precise than a GPS.  

The innkeeper was an old Greek guy, presumably in his 70s, who looked like Anthony Quinn on the heavy side. After collecting payment, he escorted me to the second floor. “Put this in key hole when you leave. Check out time is ten in the morning,” he said, and went back downstairs. My room was spartan. There was a small bed and desk, a square mirror on the wall next to a framed charcoal drawing of what looked an impression of a Grecian urn. No cabinet. The window had a view of the street. The bathroom was located at the end of the hallway. I would only be staying for the night. 

The concert would start at eight, and, anticipating a long queue, there was no time to rest. I walked to the bathroom and washed my face. Back in my room I preened myself in front of the mirror. I couldn’t face the Queen looking like a hobo. I pulled out my belt bag from the backpack. I stuffed it with my wallet, concert ticket, cell phone, maps, lip balm, gum, and after deciding what the heck, my camera. I would think of a plan to sneak it in.   

All roads lead to United Center. Pilgrims of all ages, ethnic origins, religions, and sexual persuasions would congregate that night. I set off on Halsted Street, walking three blocks until I reached the corner of Madison Avenue, and took a left turn. I could hear my heart racing, unable to hide my excitement. This was a journey that took me twenty-four years to make, traversing different time zones, the expanse of the great Pacific Ocean, a voyage of 8,000 miles, and nearly 9,000 days since the first time I saw Madonna in the Borderline video when I was still in third grade. In the intervening years I’ve slipped in and out of faith and nonbelief, moved across the terrains of lucidity and melancholia, even navigate the sexual topography from being top to bottom to versa, but all throughout this constant movement, my devotion to Madonna never faltered. And now I would see her in person, this woman that I called my Icon. I walked closer to United Center, the sky slowly turning into the color of gunpowder, my hands sweating despite the cold. I rubbed my eyes to clear my vision, and got a big surprise. There was nobody outside United Center. Except for the security guards. I checked my watch. It was only five twenty. I proceeded to the box office. “What time will the gates open?” I asked. “Not until six thirty.” I was early. I was way too early. But there was no turning back. I would just have to wait. I walked to the other side of the arena, took out my camera, and started snapping photos. Ten minutes later I saw a group of teenagers taking a video of themselves, talking to the camera about how excited they were about the concert. They were planning to do a documentary. But how would they sneak in the camera? At that point I had thought of a way to sneak in my camera. I would tuck it in my brief. The guards would check my bag, I was sure of that. But it was most unlikely that they would ask me to strip, unless they really have some very kinky fetish. 

battle of the samosa

Remember the time when a lady Muslim legislator slapped a caterer during a dinner break at the House because she was served a noodle dish containing pork? Well, something of that nature has spawned a lawsuit in New Jersey after Hindu vegetarians were served samosas containing meat.

Recently, in Gupta v. Asha Enterprises, No. A-3059-09T2 (N.J. Ct. App. July 18, 2011), the Appellate Division of the New Jersey Superior Court affirmed in part and reversed in part a trial court’s grant of summary judgment in favor of an Edison, New Jersey restaurant that allegedly served meat-filled samosas to sixteen Hindu vegetarians.

 As part of an India Day celebration in 2009, the plaintiffs placed an order at the Indo-Pak restaurant for vegetarian samosas, informing the restaurant that the food was being purchased for a group of strict vegetarians. The restaurant filled the order and assured the plaintiffs that the food did not contain meat. After consuming some of the samosas, the plaintiffs returned the remaining samosas to the restaurant and were advised that the food was, in fact, filled with meat. As a result, the plaintiffs claimed spiritual damage and asserted a number of causes of action against the restaurant, including product liability and breach of express warranty.

 The Court found prima facie evidence of an express warranty by the restaurant employees and reversed the grant of summary judgment as to that claim. However, the Court affirmed summary judgment on the product liability claim, holding that, while the plaintiffs were supplied the wrong product, the food was safe, edible, and fit for human consumption. Alas, religion and products liability remain divided.

As practitioners of the Swaminarayan principles of Hinduism, the plaintiffs believe that by eating meat they “become involved in the sinful cycle of pain, injury and death on God’s creatures, and that it affects the karma and dharma, or purity of the soul.”

half

I've just finished shooting half of my film Cartas de la Soledad. It was a gruelling six-day shoot, with lots of drama and suspense both offscreen and onscreen. Lessons learned, too.

For instance, I will never shoot with a DSLR camera ever again. Unless Canon pays me gazillions of money. DSLR is not for those who love doing long takes. The rendition of blacks is bad. I will never shoot near the beach. I was trying to avoid a live sound recording nightmare by not shooting in the middle of the city. The beach can be as problematic. I will never work with people who does not understand my vision and aesthetics. It will just turn out to be an exercise in futility. I will never work beyond 16 hours a day. It's exhausting physically and creatively.

I shoot again in two weeks. I resolve to be more prepared than the first half of the shoot. I'm thankful for a supportive, patient and creative team: Coicoi Nacario, Elreen Bendisula, John Barredo, Madz Alang and Yam Palma. They were part of the team behind Limbunan.

The cast is equally brilliant and talented. Perry Dizon, Mayka Lintongan, Alexis Libres, Ma. Victoria Beltran, Rashid Alvarez and Bein Ali Unayan.

For now I leave you with a photo still from the film.

sing!

I was in Singapore on two occasions in a span of a month this summer. The first one was for the inaugural Southeast Asian Film Festival where Limbunan was invited as its closing film. I flew in four weeks later for the Asia On The Edge Conference.

Wall graffiti along Queen Street.

An inflatable bunny in front of the Singapore Art Museum on Bras Basah Road.

Esplanade.

A sumptuous bowl of laksa. Yummy!

An old Peranakan window.

Pinoy filmmaker Sherad Anthony Sanchez and film programmer Philip Cheah of Singapore crossing the street.

sophomore jinx

It's barely a month before the scheduled shoot of my second film Cartas de la Soledad, but everything is still a blur. One, we haven't found the right location yet. A concrete house (circa 1950s) with a large garden and patio bordered by high walls like the one below from Shirin Neshat's Women Without Men.

Two, we don't have a sound man/ editor yet with a high level of skill, discipline and artistry that the film requires. Three, we haven't found the two boys in the supporting role. I'm wary about the third one because I'm not really fond of working with children as they need special attention. I am overly dependent on my assistant director to make this work.

For now my main concern is the house. It is the most crucial, determining factor in the film. I'm scouring Davao, Cotabato and Marawi cities for possible options. The houses that I've seen so far, those that fit the visual requirements of the film, pose a live sound recording nightmare.

I'm trying to get in touch with the artist who did the sound of my first film Limbunan, who eventually got the Urian nod for best sound, but he has not replied to my messages yet. (Mansur, I'm so sorry for being an asshole.)

So far, the only accomplishments that I'm proud of are coming up with a good script (eight revisions) with 90 percent of the dialogue in Maguindanaon, deciding not to shoot with a Canon Mark II 5D, and casting local actors Perry Dizon, Alexis Libres, Bambi Beltran and Mayka Lintongan.

My cousin Philip says that this is called sophomore jinx although I'm inclined to believe that anything sophomore works fine to me. I did great on my second year in high school. But I'm ridiculously superstitious and freaked out by this suggestion.

God, aliens, anyone out there, please show me the way.

it's a ferris wheel

How can I describe the past month except that it had been one heck of a giant Ferris wheel ride. Twenty eight days ago, my mother was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit for lung congestion. Her oxygen level was very low while her carbon dioxide rose to a toxic level. Later we found out that that she also had several infections, both bacterial and fungal in her lungs, and gastrointestinal tract. Because of the build up of phlegm and fluid in her lungs, she was intubated. One night she had two seizures that puzzled her doctors. The only explanation (so far) that they could offer was that it was a reaction of the body to very low oxygen level in the brain. Her neurologist suggested a CT scan in the future. "It's not urgent," the neurologist said. My mother was conscious alright but she was incoherent. "She has lots of problems already, least of it is the brain," he added.

One day she showed  signs of the end, and we were already making plans should the inevitable time of death comes. But two weeks later, she managed to snap out of the infections. Her oxygen level became stable, and, on her 20th day in the hospital, because of the improvements, she was moved to a private room. We were jubilant. I even managed to travel on two occasions: to Singapore for the Southeast Asian Film Festival, and Manila to attend the Gawad Urian where my film Limbunan won Best Sound for Dempster Samarista. I also met with my staff to prepare for the production of my second film Cartas de la Soledad.

But two days ago, my mother's condition made another turn for the worse and she was moved to the ICU again where she has been staying as of this writing. She is stable for now, but until when only the Great, Infinite One knows for sure.