THE WAY WE WERE: Or How Facebook Brought About This Fever for Nostalgia and the Songs from the 70s and 80s

The site dedicated to the alumni of UP Diliman must have started this. In a week's time, a page was dedicated to a closed group in Facebook exclusively for the graduates of La Salle Greenhills Class of 1972.  Then before we hit that desired 200 members mark, another exclusive page went up in the same social network --- this time exclusively for all the graduates of La Salle Greenhills ever since it became the primary source of all the consumers of Tropical Hut Hamburgers on Ortigas Avenue.

Let me try to go through all this and decipher what is happening --- or why (out of the blue) my schoolmates/batchmates of almost forty years ago started sprouting out of the remotest corners of the cyberuniverse.  There is great joy in that.  Really. 

It feels great to see old friends --- even those who you still remember made hell out of your high school years. You remember your best friends, the kinder ones ... but more so the junior hoodlums and hooligans who made you wish that you suddenly had telekinetic powers to get even with them just like what the legendary Carrie White did at her prom.

Worse is when you see their names ... their faces today ... and you still do not and cannot remember.  You start scraping the deep ends of your memory jar trying to figure out if the name and face really belonged to that whole set of remembrances of years past.  And you end up with nada.  You feel worst for them.  The ones you love and hate the most are the ones you hold fondest and worst memories.  Everyone else who falls in the great middle are relegated to, "Sino siya?" or something close to that. (You just wish that they had good lives, that's all.  Because chances are ... if they had become so ultra-successful, ultra-rich or ultra-important, then you would have remembered said homo sapien from the past earlier than his Facebook page resurrection, right?)

But whichever way you look at it ...there is such thrill in rediscovery.  There is even fun in reminiscing as that is what such Facebook pages are dedicated into doing --- invading the memory boxes of the past and literally turning them upside down to revive old photos and anecdotes to bring back what everyone calls the best of the years.  But more important is what you find out about yourself by rediscovering your old classmates. The following self-realizations immediately surface.

a) Everyone has aged.  


That is an inevitable part of the journey called life.  You cannot imagine that the cutest guys in your batch --- the Lotharios and Adonises who sent shivers to the Maryknollers (yes, they were still called that --- not Miriam-ers), Scholasticans, Paulinians, Theresians, Assumptionistas and the yellow army of Poveda --- have suddenly turned middle age with paunches/beer bellies, receding hairlines or complete skinheads without the aid of razors --- and worse, resembling grandfathers because they are grandfathers.

(You make cross references to the Facebook picture taken in 2011 and the high school yearbook where he still sports shoulder-length hair fashionable in the very early pre-Martial Law 1972.  That's when you scream and say, "Panginoon kong Lord ... what happened?" Well, I certainly know the answer to that question and it is nothing mind-boggling or confidential --- forty years have passed since the high school graduation photo.  Everything in Don Juan's body just ... gave way.


I remember going through the Facebook pages of people I do remember from high school and I gasp.  I said, oh, yes ... forty years have taken their toll.  Some aged gracefully ... while others, well, just aged. And who would have thought that they would look like that at 50+ when they stood out so differently in those long crazy nights at Where Else?)

b) Everyone is still acting like a high school boy on the Facebook page.


What is so amusing is how much of high school is remembered --- especially the female teachers who have certainly become part of the post-puberty fantasies of young men who have now graduated into the stature of inherent senior citizens.  It is amusing to sift through what specific memories each holds sacred --- and how these have been kept with such fondness through all these years.


You cannot forget the teachers you abused in your puberty fantasies ... as well as the ones you categorically hated for the rest of your life.

Now I wonder if the children of my batchmates truly realize what stuff their fathers are made of.  It makes me laugh at the thought that after forty years my classmates still fantasize about gorgeous English teachers who must now be in their seventies ... or tyrant high school instructors who made their lives miserable through various forms of disciplinary torture.

c) Everybody has a favorite anecdote about high school.

That cannot be helped.  Even to this day, I find myself laughing aloud when I remember all the insanity that took place during my high school years.  Remember that these were the drug crazed early 70s when we all sported long hair (because we all still had hair) while wearing our flare pants, Bang Bang jeans, Nicnic shirts smelling of Brut or Jovan Musk Oil or Paco Rabanne.

These were the years when the common ritual of La Salle Green Hill archers was to walk from the campus to nearby Unimart and steal puffs of smoke while traipsing down Ortigas Avenue or hiding behind the St Benilde gym.

These were the years when somebody (identity held out of respect for all the years of agreed-upon silence) placed powerful firecrackers from Bocaue, Bulacan on the toilet right outside the walkway to the gym.  Or the time somebody gave a classmate a pad of Diatabs telling him that this was a hallucinogen called Black Sabbath, guaranteeing a memorable trip. (Addendum: Said student did not have any hallucination but was absent for two days because of a severe case of massive constipation.  Same schoolmate was also the much-talked about legendary victim of a major high school Neanderthal showdown which ended with Diatab Prince's face pushed down a toilet full of piss.)

d) Everybody is posting his favorite song that brings back the most recollections and memory flashbacks of the period.

Oh, that was the age of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young ("Our House" is a very, very fine house ...), Iron Butterfly, Carole King ("It's Too Late"), James Taylor.  Everybody is posting YouTube videos and captures of Stairway to Heaven ... and here I am crooning the Graduation Song that was played during our Baccalaureate Mass, "Fill the World With Love" from the film Goodbye, Mr. Chips.  Sigh.

OK. It cannot be helped. We all get nostalgic. We all revert to the good old days because they will be better than the really awful ones that seem to constitute the here and now.  But what is funny is that there will be an entire generation who will look back at 2011 and consider these years as their good old days.  I guess that process never ends inasmuch as I remember my parents talk about pre-war years and call them their good old days.

But I blame Facebook for all this.  I blame social networks for not only making the world so much smaller ... but also folding the long and winding roads of time into cute ribbons and knots, bringing back so much of yesterday in sporadic instances of today.  

I am not a fan of class reunions.  I feel awkward when I go to such a get-together and find out I am not dressed up like my batchmates but garbed in the fashion worn by their ... uh, children.  Only few people my age can still dare to wear skinny jeans. I don't think any of my classmates do ... or if anyone of them can sing a Katy Perry song by heart. But I still enjoy seeing them ... and knowing that the years have been kind to most of us.

But I am thankful for Facebook inasmuch as I am dismayed by such nostalgia attacks.  The here and now may be more complicated and testing ... but memories are always better.  Yesterdays are always the good old days.  And they can only be made better if there is a today.

FAMOUS

I do not want to be misinterpreted or misunderstood. I have nothing against the cult of the celebrity.  I am merely amused.


I am amused by the all-too-much brouhaha given when a world famous celebrity visits our sacred shores and reaches the front pages of most broadsheets.  If these were tabloids or other periodicals sincerely and ultimately dedicated to the kind of news swapped over wet market stalls, then I would understand.   But to juxtapose the arrival of a celebrity with the frenzy of European stocks because of the troubles of the US Dollars or the most scandalous reports on newly discovered cases of local graft and corruption --- or, God forbid, investigations of a car bomb that killed officials in the southern island --- uh, that tends to be a bit surreal.


Is any celebrity who represents or embodies nothing political, artistic, social or even philosophical in significance worth the front page? 


Then one asks, "What the hell makes anybody famous nowadays?"  


In a world so crowded and bombarded with every available opportunity for media, fame has become an ambition in itself.  You don't have to do anything of real importance for mankind or even the trapped kitten on top of a tree to be famous. What is important is to be famous. Period.


Thus dissolves that thin line between admiration and infamy.  


More often than not, negative popularity is still considered media marketability: how does that statement go? Worse than being talked about is not being talked about. Some people would rather die than be ignored.
After all, nowadays ... it is fame (and not necessarily success although fame can be mistaken for success) that has become the international aphrodisiac.


OK, here and abroad, there are people who have made a career out of being talked about ... and would find every possible opportunity to be the object of attention of the public.  It seems that the planet has grown so small because of the accessibility of information that what is more important is to be in the consciousness of the public rather than the reason why people are thinking or talking about you. And to be the focus of media attention is hastily equated with adoration. Adoration nowadays spells business, money and all the trappings that may not save your soul but would make you look good on close-up.


Public admiration/attention leads to endorsements which spell business opportunities necessarily equated with money, money, money.  All you need is to have a recognizable name and you can plaster that on top of anything from washing machines to industrial strength vibrators ... and you got your millions ... just for being you.  Well, no wonder.


No wonder people want to be famous at the price of surrendering all that was once held as elements of dignity in a private life.


There can only be too many ways in explaining the phenomena of Reality Television.  We have all become voyeurs, right?  


The very nature of television as medium lends itself to voyeurism, prying into the most private images and conversations of people because the tv set has become an eye that is allowed to penetrate through the most sacred and secret sanctuaries of our lives.  We have tv sets in our living rooms, study rooms, bedrooms, cars and even our telephones.  We watch inasmuch as we are watched.  Reality television has converted the instrument to monitor into the camera that captures us watching inasmuch as we are also being watched. 


And nowadays we can't go on living unless we are watching or being watched. 


Oh, yes: be afraid ... be very afraid.


Be very afraid that not only have we accepted the intrusion of media into the most protected spaces of our lives --- but we have also considered the invasion of privacy of other people's lives as entertainment. The whole Big Brother syndrome of omniscience and even omnipotence gives a feeling of utmost superiority --- making real human situations laughable and even the anguish of others as enjoyable. 


Somewhere along the way, we have blurred the dividing line between fact from fiction, between the actual and the merely mounted. We have made the Everyman a celebrity, worthy of interest and attention ... or even undeserved admiration and celebration.  Life has become entertainment ... in a not-so-positive way. Life has become a commercial investment.


Thus there are so-called celebrities who are infamous for being famous.


There are others who are merely famous for being famous.  


There are even much more whose fame has the lifespan of a mayfly: they are has-beens and forgotten even before anyone remembers their names.  Because media depends on being current and works at a speed that is almost as fast as light, people --- including celebrities --- have been diminished to images and sound bytes that can be changed, displaced and replaced for whatever reason there might be.


Point to ponder: nobody lasts.  Yes, it is a given fact that nothing --- no one lasts forever --- but nowadays forever has been diminished to very, very short amount of time.  Unless one manages to find a way to sustain public interest or even curiosity, that popularity index will dip and eventually fade because there is always somebody fresher, younger ... and cheaper who is waiting in the sidelines ready for you to put down your guard so that he/she/it can displace you right there where the spotlight is aimed.


Thus comes this preponderance and preoccupation to always warrant public attention --- regardless of means. The end justifies after all.  To sustain market value, one must always tickle the curiosity of the audience that suffers from attention deficit ... and as time passes, the celebrity must raise the ante, invest more to grab the headlines --- either with vicious quotable quotes, picking the right fights with fellow celebrities or wannabes, getting themselves fertilized at the perfectly wrong time --- or just doing inane things to make people either applaud, gape or barf.


So when there is so much ado about a celebrity who seems to be reason enough for public attention, one can always ask, "What is this person famous for?  What is it about him or her to celebrate ... to be called a celebrity?"  And nowadays, more often than not, one ends up thinking twice or thrice before coming up with an answer that goes, "Ano nga ba?"
This is followed by an even more disturbing footnote: "Then why is there such hoopla?"


Yes, this is indeed the age when one can be famous ... for being famous.

DEFILEMENT AND DEGRADATION

Funny how in a single week two definitions of defilement came into focus amid the frenzy of overcrowded news.


There was this whole brouhaha about the works of a visual artist in an  exhibit at the Main Gallery of the Cultural Center of the Philippines.


Then there was the euphoria of the Philippine Dragon Boat team bringing home five gold medals and a couple of silvers --- suddenly doused with such insensitive, downer comments from an official of the Philippine Olympic Committee.


Whereas the accusations of desecration and blasphemy sent the Legion of Holy Warriors and the Army of the Morally Upright into their own version of a jihad against Mideo Cruz and everyone at the CCP who has got anything to do with the Kulo exhibit, the artistic community also banged their drums --- reacting to what was institutional pressure being exerted.  


Then came that phone call from the highest of the executive offices in that palace by Pasig River --- which, of course, ended all arguments.  The exhibit was shut down days ahead of its appointed deadline for supposedly reasons of security or perhaps just to make everybody shut up once and for all.


But that wasn't the case.  Days later, the officers of the CCP found themselves as respondents to criminal charges against specific Republic Acts in cases filed by religious group in the Office of the Ombudsman.


This did not fair well with the artistic community that felt betrayed because: a) this felt like another case which should have required dialogue between the artists and the protesters rather than to use institutional bullying especially from the Church and its cohorts, b) this was a violation of the independence of the CCP from censorship and c) this was curtailing the right to freedom of expression guaranteed by the constitution. 


Arguments and debates can go on and on and on ... and it is as if this was the very first time that the freedom to say what one feels and thinks in a manner the artist wants to say it and make others feel it went into a head-on collision with the ultra-rightists, the conservatives, and the fundamentalists.  


Now even those indulging legalese are saying that the Cultural Center is meant to celebrate the best in Philippine culture --- and has no room for so-called artists who make collages out of posters, tear sheets from magazines and images of Jesus Christ mixed with condoms and penis wood carvings. The legal eagles are saying that whatever is housed at the CCP should reflect the philosophy of the government and therefore should reflect appropriate discrimination.  We certainly hope that is not tantamount to saying that the only exhibits and performances allowed in that sacred venue are those that celebrate the good, the true and the beautiful. Ooops! Are we back in that era again?


Then came that whole mess about a certain Mr. Tamayo of the Philippine Olympic Committee (POC) literally belittling the Philippine Dragonboat Team after the group returned from Florida with a trunk full of gold and silver medals and euphoric honor to the country.


Let us paint the objective picture: a) the Dragonboat team is no longer a recognized official Philippine team ... which meant that it did not get government support and had to scrounge funds to participate in the world competition, b) upon their return, the POC still refused to recognize the team ... much less, the honor they brought home to the country, c) instead, Mr Tamayo belittled the victory of the group saying that the group won all those medals because they were overqualified to join that contest and their participation was already questionable if not unfair and d) Mr. Tamayo also pointed out that the Dragonboat team members were all old and comparable to brittle ampaw and needed to retire to give way to the next generation of paddlers.  


Uhm, that's a Filipino appointed to the Philippine Olympic Committee?  That official is supposed to encourage and foster Philippine athletes to achieve world class caliber and to bring their level of performance to exemplary sportsmanship?  That is an official who is supposed to embody a sense of pride in being a Filipino ... and to push one's self to the limits to show the greatness in our race?  Something is very, very wrong here.  The words muttered in a television interview did not only reverberate condescension: it was downright defilement, desecration ... and worse, a celebration of bitter crab mentality at its best.


Perhaps like Mr. Tamayo was very much like Mideo Cruz: he was exercising his freedom of expression.  He was verbalizing his opinion, despite shortness of thought and definitely a glaring lack of sensitivity.  Yes, we agree that in a democracy --- you can say whatever you want as long as you are responsible and accountable for it.  And if Mr. Tamayo feels that he has done far greater accomplishments than the Dragonboat team, then that is his prerogative.


It is also the choice and prerogative of people to react to his statements, to condemn him for his lack of appreciation for what others consider as heroic accomplishments of these men and women --- and, worse, to question his credibility to be part of the Olympic Committee considering his disposition, attitude or simple lack of verbal competence.


Unlike Mideo Cruz who violated the sensibilities and sensitivities of the Roman Catholics, Tamayo was not making any real statement --- except carping against athletes that he should have honored and acknowledged for their unique accomplishments.  It was Mr. Tamayo's job to encourage --- and not to defile or belittle.  It was his mandate to inspire --- and not cackle just because the POC had absolutely nothing to do with the acquisition of those medals.


Mideo Cruz' installations were meant to shock ... and shock he did.  It was also his freedom to put together those images to create some sensory frenzy to anyone who viewed the mind boggling juxtaposition of images of the sacred and what others consider profane.  But the fact that he did it was because he had a distinct purpose.  And together with that purpose is the accountability and responsibility to stand by what he has created.  That is the measure of his caliber and dignity as an artist.


I am not a fan of Mideo Cruz' works and I was also stunned by his visuals BUT that does not give me any right to deprive others to admire, feel revolted, argue or even experience his work. If anyone cannot stand what Mideo Cruz has to say, he or she has the option to look away and argue about the validity of his work as art. Feeling violated does not mean you should protect others from such an encounter by shutting down the possibilities of the experience.


Moreover, Mideo Cruz is only one of thirty-two artists --- all graduates of the Catholic University of the Philippines (University of Santo Tomas)--- who participated in Kulo. Politeismo is only one piece ... so why should all the other participants receive a collective condemnation by shunning their works from the public?


Mideo Cruz was out to shock with his thoughts of the sacred and the scandalous --- and he got public flogging for this. Mr. Tamayo was out to explain his concept honor and sportsmanship --- and earned the collective ire of so many Filipinos for manifesting one of the reasons why we have remained such losers.


Now one asks: who has done a much greater act of defilement?

THE CINEMA OF FREEDOM

I had a good week. I spent most of my weekdays inside the various venues converted into screening rooms at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. This week I was not a filmmaker: I played the role I love best. I became a movie fan.  Better yet, I partook of a feast.  That is the celebration of the best of Filipino cinema today.


To those harbingers who make pronouncements that Filipino cinema is dead, the Seventh Cinemalaya Film Festival did not only prove them wrong but rather asserted that it very much alive but reinventing its form and content.  


For those who still believe that the Filipino filmmaker is not worth the P150 to P300 spent on movie tickets, we care not to argue.  


Yes, there is happiness in wearing 3-D glasses and enjoying the spectacle of First World cinema technology.  But that is tantamount to a thrill ride, similar to a significant human experience obtained from a few minutes on a roller coaster. It is a reassurance that we are living in the 21st century with all the gimmickry and gadgetry defining our quality of existence.


To each his own: we have distinct definitions of happiness. Cinema should offer wide enough a range to cater to a spectrum of appetites. There should be enough room to appreciate Tilda Swinton in I am Love as well as Kristin Stewart in the Twilight franchise. Inasmuch as there should also be room to shriek in ecstasy watching romantic comedies as leave room for the gasp in watching films like Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang or Himala. There should be room and choices for everybody. The imbalance arises when only a specific kind of movie becomes the staple diet for everyone. This is when the audiences start looking for better options --- and the operative word is choice.


Deprive people of choice and they will lose faith in what you can and have to offer all together. Apparently that is what happened to mainstream or commercial filmmaking in the Philippines for the past five years. We have simply been deprived of choices.


But that seems to be slowly changing. What is significant about the emergent Filipino cinema is that the boundaries between independent and mainstream filmmaking are slowly dissolving.  


The astounding attendance of Cinemalaya screenings this year --- extended to two movie houses in Greenbelt --- manifest widening patronage that was once assumed to be an insignificant niche audience.  Suddenly, you do not only see ComArts students required by their professors, cinema buffs and Pilosopong Tasyos, or even members of that small yet loquacious community of indie filmmakers crowding the main lobby as well as the venues outside the Little Theater and Huseng Batute at the CCP.  Now you have everyday people who literally went out of their ways to go to Roxas Bouleavard to watch these films.


Much to everyone's surprise and jubilation, 90% of the tickets were sold for most of the screenings, including the ones at Greenbelt.  Two New Breed entries, Marlon Rivera's Ang Babae sa Septic Tank and Erick Salud's Ligo Na U, Lapit na Me were running on sold-out theaters so much so that Cinemalaya had to accommodate extra screenings just to fill out the unwavering demand.  


Now is that not reason to celebrate?  OK, admittedly Ang Babae sa Septic Tank --- the biggest hit of the festival --- is a showcase of the comic genius of an actress named Eugene Domingo. Her marquee value alone can fill up any theater after proving her worth through years of dedication and determination. Even in the mainstream scene, Eugene Domingo is already an A-Lister.  Adding the sharpness of wit in Chris Martinez' script and the impressive directorial debut of Marlon Rivera, Ang Babae sa Septic Tank is one kind of indie movie that is shamelessly and definitely commercial without insulting the intelligence of its audience or pandering to the law of the least common denominator in taste. 


For Eugene Domingo, like Cherry Pie Picache, Tessie Tomas, Mark Gil, Alfred Vargas, Marvin Agustin and other dedicated performers, Cinemalaya has become a venue to push their craft so much further than what is permissible in mainstream cinema --- or, God forbid, telenovelas. As one of these actors bluntly put it, appearing in an indie movie (yes, even with that exaggerated metaphor of being fed only Skyflakes and cat food)is an act of liberation ... if not affirmation that they have talent beyond autopilot acting required from other venues.


But consider Ligo na U that stars an extremely competent but underutilized Edgar Allan Guzman and an indie darling named Mercedes Cabral. Here is an example of a movie that allegedly cost only P1.8M and has become the second highest grossing Cinemalaya entry this year.  Based on a novel by Eros S. Atalia, Ligo na U did not depend on a major star to give wind to its sails. Rather, it is the strength of the material, the crispness of the script and upbeat direction that has sold this movie to the audience it was targeted to entertain.


The bottomline is: with a good material, great script and direction ... the star value becomes peripheral if not incidental. The real star of the film is the film.


Then consider two of the best movies among the New Breed Section: Lawrence Fajardo's Amok and Loy Arcenas' Nino.


There is absolutely no way that any commercial producer, regardless of lofty intentions and messianic delusions, will ever invest their money in movies such as these.  


Why? Because focus groups will allegedly not understand and therefore not give high scores to ensemble pieces whether they take place in the busiest corner of EDSA and Taft Avenue or especially in an old decaying residence of an age lost and irretrievable. Why? Because neither movies fall within the template of what is considered commercially viable or that pre-conceived recipe for a project to have strong chances of being a box office hit.


But these two films represent the best of what Cinemalaya had to offer this year.  Fajardo's Amok is a marvel of filmmaking, rich in its grit and never sensationalizing its subject matter in observing an orchestra of characters moving around a busy urban intersection.  Amok never went the route of poverty porn --- the kind so wonderfully spoofed by Babae sa Septic Tank --- that has characterized the trademark of Pang-international Filmfest Ito!  Instead, this complex and intricate ensemble piece is so beautifully acted by well-honed actors especially Mark Gil and Dido de la Paz who deliver performances with such rawness and courage. Bravo!


Then there is Nino, Loy Arcenas' eulogy to the death of an age of manners and propriety, an epilogue to the Filipino delicadeza and amor propio as he studies the final blows in the deterioration of once respected but now highly dysfunctional family.  Whereas Amok is about grit, Nino is all about gentility ... about culture.  Whereas Amok reeks of the rap music being sung by young boys peddling their cigarettes and candies in the streets, Nino is about a faded opera singer --- wonderfully portrayed by Fides Cuyugan-Asencio --- as she musters all her courage to sustain herself while being completely aware that she has outlived her use. I am so ... overwhelmed.


Where else but in Cinemalaya can you get such a joy to watch two films such as these?  Where else but in this festival of independent films can we assure ourselves that ... yes, Filipino film is still alive and reinventing itself in a language that has always been understood but never quite spoken because of blatant obsession for commercialism.


Where else but in Cinemalaya can you get to watch a film as lyrical as Aureus Solito's Busong or discover that Rocco Nacino and Paolo Avelino are such promising young actors in Ang Sayaw ng Dalawang Kaliwang Paa whereas you tend to dismiss them as beefcake and pretty boys on tv?  Where else but in a festival such as this can you find brilliant performances by Art Acuna, Sharmaine Centenera-Buencamino and Raquel Villavicencio in Nino, Cherry Pie Picache and Bembol Roco in Adolf Alix's Isda, or JM de Guzman and Kean Cipriano in Babae sa Septic Tank?


Where else can I be assured that there is an entire generation of new, brave and brilliant filmmakers just waiting in the wings to bring Filipino cinema to new heights?


There is only one true Filipino film festival ... and it is called Cinemalaya.  And that is why I am ecstatic. That is why I am celebrating.

DEPARTURES

The rains were relentless last Saturday.  But that did not hinder the friends to gather around his bedside at Medical City.  He checked in the day before and was supposed to leave Sunday to go back to the Villa but the doctors asked him to remain for another day for more procedures.


The friends have made arrangements to proceed to the hospital in the early afternoon.  And we all came, somewhat surprised to find other pals there to share the visiting hours with our ailing buddy.  


We were warned by those who saw him earlier that his looks revealed his sad condition.  We were told to brace ourselves because his features were so different now.  The sickness had practically drained him of his life.


We were also told by another friend, his cousin, that the doctors have already stated that there was nothing more humanly possible that can be done. It was only a matter of time.  And that was why we all gathered in that hospital room that rainy Saturday afternoon. 


We were aware that our time together with him was coming to an end. We wanted to be there to assure him that we were all there for him. 


So it was not surprising that we suddenly filled the room with so much chatter and laughter. We all agreed that this was going to be a happy occasion ... a get-together that so resembled the many we have had in the past under better circumstances.  Tears were not allowed. Not in front of him.


He looked at us from his bed and tried his best to give his reactions and join the conversation. But for most of the time he was listening ... and watching ... and looking at us ... and smiling. He was staring at each and every one of us, as if trying to recollect all the memories shared through years together.


Yes, he lost so much weight. Yes, he complained about the helplessness that accompanies such a fatal ailment so much so that it has been called "the emperor of maladies."  And yes, he was weak ... when he spoke, his voice was much softer ... and not the booming sound that he usually made whenever he wanted to emphasize a point. But there was still much life in him: ever so sharp, so attentive and in control. For that was him.  That was all of him.




Don Escudero has always been the biggest man in any room. He is the giant of my life.


The first time I met him was when I transferred to De la Salle College and landed in Section 5-C.  Don was also in that class. By the time he was in the Fifth Grade, he must have been about five feet eight inches tall. La Salle had a policy that time that we all had to wear khaki shorts until we reached Grade Seven.  That was the only time we were allowed to wear long pants. So Don was this giant among us in short pants.


But even then he was the gentlest of all the kids I have met.  


Whereas everybody was obsessed reading comic books, Don was already discussing Tolkien. Yes, even before Frodo and the Hobbits became fashionable, Don was already devouring such literary works with great gusto.  He was into CS Lewis, he was into history. He was into music ... he was into anthropology. He came from a family that did not only cherish but breathed refinement and culture.  And Don was the inevitable heir apparent.


Despite his size, Don never took advantage of anybody.  He never considered his social station, intellectual or even physical prowess as a reason to belittle others or assert what he wanted. He was, indeed, the Gentle Giant.




He held a big birthday party some time around the last week of January of this year.  He called the event Alive at 55.  At that time, we were not certain about the state of his health although some friends whispered that the cancer had actually undergone metathesis. 


It was almost two years since we heard the news that he was diagnosed with that most dreaded ailment.  The friends gathered around him at that time giving him moral support and encouraging him to give a good fight. His family had always rallied behind him --- so we were sure he was going to go to the battle with head up high and immeasurable determination.  He could draw strength from so many sources.


For a while we believed that the cancer went into remission.  


We were jubilant.  We have known people who have also been diagnosed with the sickness and have survived.  We were certain he was going to be one of them. We could not imagine how his life could be so shortened whereas there were still so many things he wanted to do ... and more he had yet to do. 


Even when he opted to leave the entertainment industry behind to take care of the business of running the villa and resort, he already boasted of achievements that are still unmatched and would find great difficulty to equal until today.  


For how can the history of Filipino cinema be discussed without his brilliant production design of Oro, Plata, Mata or Scorpio Nights or Once Upon a Time?  With Peque Gallaga as director, his visual genius outshone all the others in his field because his was intelligence, scholarship and inherent taste that could not be acquired through workshops or mere posturing.




We were friends all throughout high school and found ourselves together for most of the time in college.


We were both members of the De la Salle Dramatics Guild: I remember Don in a Michel de Ghelderode play, Pantagleize where I was supposed to be a member of the cast but had to back out.  We were more bonded together because of the ComArts program together with Manny Castaneda: I was about to graduate when the program opened in La Salle with Clodualdo del Mundo Jr. I remember finishing all my remaining electives in ComArts courses where we were also joined by the first batch of coeds including Benggot Pe Benito.  


Oh, yes, there was a cross-enrolled student from Saint Paul's College who was beautiful, prim, proper and exceptionally quiet. She sat right behind us in Del Mundo's classes: her name was Charo Santos.


So it was not surprising that after college, we all ended up in the "Industry."  


I got my break to write the screenplay of Oro, Plata, Mata because of Don Escudero.  It was he who brought me to Peque Gallaga so that I can flesh out this beautiful story that Gallaga had as an outline.  If it were not for Don, my professional reputation as a screenwriter would not have been sealed. It was through this friend of mine that I gained the momentum to launch my career as a screenwriter.


Manny Castaneda and I left the hospital at about 5:30 PM.  There were still other friends who remained in the room to keep him company. Tats Manahan and Manuel Genato practically gave all their available hours to be with him since he took a turn for the worse.


As I was about to leave, I gave him that usual wave and said, "You take care!" He was supposed to go back to the Villa the following day.


Just last Sunday I sent him a text message: I apologized for all that noise in his hospital room. I said that we were a bit too rowdy for comfort.  But he replied: "Loved every second of it." I also told him that if he going back to the hospital this week that I would visit him again. He said he would like that.  


I knew he was so happy that his friends were with him and filled that room with such beautiful cacophony.




Don was with me in Berlin to attend the screening of Toro (Live Show) for the Berlinale.  Being part of our production company, Available Light, Don took care of the subtitling of the movie in Amsterdam before proceeding to Germany to join me and the other members of the delegation for the showing of our movie.


That was perhaps one of the happiest times of our lives. Don and I rode the limousine to go to Pottsdamer Platz to attend the premiere screening of the movie. I was not myself, practically dazed out of my wits with what was happening to us. When we boarded the limousine provided by the festival to go to the venue, Don said, "Do you know we are riding the most expensive Mercedes Benz car there is?" I looked at Don and said, "Really?"  And he said, "Yeah, really."  And we both laughed.


Don Escudero was also beside me when we marched down Mendiola condemning the Arroyo administration's banning of Live Show. He was by my side, together with other directors from the Directors Guild of the Philippines, who chose to come to my defense.  


Don never left my side ... from moments in heaven ... down to the challenges of hell. How many of us can boast of having friends like that?


Last Monday evening I received word that he was not allowed to leave the hospital to go home to the Villa.  He took a turn for the worse. No, it was the worst.  In so many words, my friend was dying.


It was much too soon, much too fast. We were back at the hospital. We knew that it was only a matter of hours. And we all said our prayers and our goodbyes.


We could not explain why the deterioration was so fast. It was only two days ago that he was still laughing with us. That afternoon, he was still entertaining friends and --- yes, talking about one of his favorite songs, "Shiver Me Timbers" as interpreted by Bette Midler.  He was still in control, making decisions as to what kind of respiratory aid he wanted. 


Tats Manahan said this was an answer to all our prayers. We did not want him to suffer. We did not want him to go through what we heard are the horrors that cancer victims undergo during the last leg of the battle.  And God answered our prayers: He took him home with much less pain than we all feared he would encounter.


When he left, he was surrounded by the family who adored him and who he loved so much ... and the friends who loved him so greatly.


Tomorrow, we shall say our final goodbyes to our friend.


It hurts. It hurts to say goodbye to someone who has become so much a part of your life ... who was there in each and every step of growing up, becoming who you are ... and eventually settling for the terms of what is called life.


It hurts when you think that he is no longer a phone call ... or a text message away.  It hurts when you suddenly feel this gap, this space in your life. It is like having a tooth extracted ... and suddenly there is this hole in your gums.  You know one day the pain will go away but the gap will remain ... and nothing real can ever fill it again.


But then ... we all must let go ... not to forget but to remember. Remember Don's life in celebration, remember him for all that he was to us.  


As I always said ... before Google, there was Don Escudero, who knew everything.


Don has always been the biggest man in any room.  And his bigness has got nothing to do with his physical size. It has everything to do with his mind ... but more so, his heart. That is why many will miss him ... and he will always be remembered as the Giant who taught us how to be gentle ... and genteel.


Goodbye, Don.

THE ART OF DEADMA

Deadma: (n) a bastardized translation of a Filipino idiom patay malisiya. Referring to the practice of deliberately, consciously if not maliciously ignoring an individual or a group in order to  a) avoid a confrontation, b) express disgust, dismay or feelings approximating such  or c) refusing to accept responsibility for consequences, repercussions or implications if and when a face-to-face situation takes.  Can also be used as a verb to put into action definition given above.



Filipinos are fond of deadma.  As a matter of fact, some have even turned it into an art.  I will admit that I am one of the masters of deadma.  I can enter a room full of people and zero in on a specific creature who I have resolved never to have anything to do in this present reincarnation. Having focused on such a sad life form in a venue where I am expected to embody finesse and even attempts at sophistication, I would rather turn on my deadma mode than be a drama queen.


Besides, there is a certain cheapness --- a contrived kind of unspeakable (but very printable and You-Tube-able) vulgarity in being a drama queen ... most especially when there are pairs of eyes focused on you and waiting for your explosion.  Given the option to make a spectacle of myself (which I am capable of doing if properly provoked or under the influence of tequila) or to do a very good impersonation of Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestley, I choose the higher road.  That is when the art of deadma approximates being educated and not susceptible for blind item discussion in tv shows like Juicy.


But in a business like show business (like no other business), deadma goes beyond the art of creative bitching.  It has become a work practice, a standard which has become acceptable not out of choice but because you can't do anything about it ...except get a lawyer.


Deadma in show business comes in various shapes and sizes --- and is practiced by everyone from the lowest of ranks to the demigods and demigoddesses whose sense of aesthetics have become the barometers of Philippine popular culture today.  Deadma can come in various forms --- and with various reasons --- again ranging from the most predictably basic (i.e., stupidity and bad manners) to the most incredibly contrived (i.e., just plain bad manners that is empowered by money, position and connections and a feeling that you can treat anybody any which way you choose because their careers are dependent on your mood swings). 



Professional deadma is no different from the petty snobbery that is found in social events --- except here, the act of ignoring is associated with the wonderment of forgetting.   



Selective amnesia: (n)a self-inflicted, non-neurological state wherein an individual consciously, conspicuously and deliberately pretends or approximates the act of forgetting selected facts, events, commitments and individuals in order to escape culpability, responsibility and accountability.  However, selective amnesia can be readily cured, usually by actions associated with indignation, litigation or even violence.


Selective amnesia is a more sophisticated term for professional deadma. 


A co-worker gave this most common example: he is an actor. 


He received a call from a talent coordinator, asking for his availability, cost of talent fee and schedule for a regular stint in a television soap opera. They talk price, schedule and commitment. He is asked to block off three days of each week for the taping schedule. However, true to the tradition of most media negotiations at this point in this country--- there is no written contract, no affidavit sealing the premilinary deal --- in other words, nothing binding except the exchange of words spoken or sent as text messages on the cell phone. Everything depends on the legendary "palabra de honor."


And then it happens.  


Professional deadma is when the actor does not receive any follow-up but learns that the production has pushed through and somebody else has replaced him for the role. 


Although there was no argument, no issue, no controversy to disavow the verbal agreement, there was also no follow-up nor notice to the actor to tell him that he was bumped off the project for one reason or another.  And all the while, the actor had blocked off his schedule, accepted no other commitment, and is now caught flat-footed and looking stupid. Also add flat broke.


But when the talent coordinator or production assistant is accosted for not even sending a three-sentence text message stating that he has been replaced for the role, the actor will receive the best sample of rehearsed surprise, overused finger pointing and the lamest apologies ever conceived by organisms so jaded by their work that they are no longer capable of sincerity.


This is when the famous Filipino words, "Akala ko kasi ..." comes into practical use. Also add the most abused and overused, "Pasensiya na po ...". Yeah, right.


Ah, such exhibitions of callousness and lack of consideration go all the way to the top of the heap (except they don't say sorry from the executive offices).  


Almost every one in the entertainment business knows that deadma has been an accepted practice and anyone who dares complain can get himself into worse trouble.  You can wake up to find out that the job promised to you has gone completely kaput ... and that all your hard work has led to absolutely nothing ... and you don't say anything.  You just deal with it like any post-traumatic stress that shall be benchmarks of your career in movies and tv.




In a close knit industry where everyone is a tito, tita, kuya or ate, complaining and talking about commitments are not part of good manners and right conduct.  Regardless of how inconsiderate others have become ... or how you were so badly short changed by a talent coordinator, an executive producer or even the producer himself ... you don't start barking like a crazed mongrel.You don't talk about human right ... you can't be too smart for your own good.


You end up being branded as hard to work with because of an attitude problem.


And what is that attitude problem? You don't give due respect to the hands that feed you ... even if the same hands hit you on the head, slap mud on your face and make you feel like you have no other right aside from taking whatever those hands can give. It doesn't only have to be a humble talent coordinator to show you the deadma works ... even the most respected producers can do the same ... and you simply sit back, sigh and say ... "One day, it will be my turn to shove the crap down their throats."


By that time, you too would have mastered the art of professional deadma.

FRIENDS

With the ever increasing popularity of social networking, the term friend has now been overused, misused and sadly abused.


My Facebook page maxxed out on the number of friends that can be accommodated by a single profile.  And when I make a quick review of the five thousand people supposedly attached to me, receiving updates on my shoutouts, whereabouts and what-the-hell-I-am-all-about any given point of my living history, I realize that I barely know ten per cent of that grand total.  


I guess for some it can be quite an achievement to boast of such numbers. That sort of trend has been going around since the time of Friendster (remember that?) or MySpace (that now sounds like ancient history).  The more names attached to your page, the greater justification you have for earthy existence or so you think.  


I wouldn't even think about the sheer number of Twitter followers I have --- over eight thousand --- which is really menial compared to other media people who actually foist the fact that they have hit the millions who get a constant update of their state of being in 140 characters.


But now considering how in a span of one week the local newscasts have consistently warned about the dangers of Facebooking and Tweeting, everyone begins to rethink if this is really quite a harmless diversion.  Aside from all those social theories that say that too much time in front of the computer leads to  a) the development of anti-social behavior due to isolationist practices and deprivation of actual human contact  b) a form of deliberate escapism that can lead to much more complex personality disorders considering one usurps conscious time in virtual reality and c) really very bad eyesight --- the dangers have reached the level of physical threats.


Uhm, a tv-director-slash-actor was literally slashed and stabbed seventeen times by somebody he encountered in Facebook --- and a call center agent was tied, stabbed to death and robbed by her so-called boyfriend who she also encountered and chatted with from the same networking site.  


Well, yes --- the dangers have always been there: you just don't invite anybody to the privacy of your abode if your level of familiarity has been limited to small floating windows on a computer monitor ... enhanced by webcams.  You don't expand your circle of friends by collecting people from the internet --- because you might as well hold a soiree or a tertulla in a zoo.  Inasmuch as there are some of us who have been emboldened to find a sense of adventure in meeting up with people they barely know out of a hope that something meaningful can come out of such gambles --- be assured that there are as many horror stories as there are fairy tale endings as far internet link-ups are concerned.


A friend of mine once said that the phenomenon of the internet age is that it made the art of blind dating extinct.


Quite true.  Social network sites can turn into catalogs where one can easily browse through available merchandise and pick out the ones that (more or less) come closest to chosen specifications.  There is always to the webcam in the messenger services or Skype to defy the challenge of distance and time zones.  The world has become much, much smaller --- and dating has literally been computerized.


The act of ultimate culmination is the eyeball when the friends can finally get to meet.


Perhaps if we tried explaining to our grandparents what was meant by finally meeting face to face someone you call a friend, then they could not and would never understand.  For anybody to say that requires either a lot of human trust ... or a sense of defiance and recklessness to scavenge whatever is out there in the virtual universe and hope that this would translate into tangible reality.


Ah, but there is where the sadness lies.


How easy it is to call anyone a friend nowadays.  Whereas before, we were much more careful in discriminating people who we have to show niceness out of choice or out of circumstance.  There are friends who we cannot help but befriend because we work with them, we need them in our jobs and there are social norms to follow ... 


And there are also those who have occupied such special spaces in our heart, people who we tend to trust more than our relatives --- and most likely know more about the real us than anyone next of kin.  Those were the handful who we truly branded as our true friends.


But certainly not all the 5000 names that fill up my profile page in Facebook. Or the 8000 who follow me in Twitter. They are people who think they know me because they know my name.  My real friends have been around for more than half my life: unlike those found in social networking sites, they cannot be unfriended or erased.