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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.
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Bibliography
The Great Little Hunter
Pinspired Philippines, 2022
The Boy The Girl
The Rat The Rabbit
and the Last Magic Days
Chapbook, 2018
Republic of Carnage:
Three Horror Stories
For the Way We Live Now
Chapbook, 2018
Bamboo Girls:
Stories and Poems
From a Forgotten Life
Ateneo de Naga University Press, 2018
Don't Tell Anyone:
Literary Smut
With Shakira Andrea Sison
Pride Press / Anvil Publishing, 2017
Cupful of Anger,
Bottle Full of Smoke:
The Stories of
Jose V. Montebon Jr.
Silliman Writers Series, 2017
First Sight of Snow
and Other Stories
Encounters Chapbook Series
Et Al Books, 2014
Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop
Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
Handulantaw: Celebrating 50 Years of Culture and the Arts in Silliman
Tao Foundation and Silliman University Cultural Affairs Committee, 2013
Inday Goes About Her Day
Locsin Books, 2012
Beautiful Accidents: Stories
University of the Philippines Press, 2011
Heartbreak & Magic: Stories of Fantasy and Horror
Anvil, 2011
Old Movies and Other Stories
National Commission for Culture
and the Arts, 2006
FutureShock Prose: An Anthology of Young Writers and New Literatures
Sands and Coral, 2003
Nominated for Best Anthology
2004 National Book Awards
Follow the Spy
Recent Crumbs
Blogs I Read
© 2002-2021
IAN ROSALES CASOCOT
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
4:41 AM |
Glossing Away the Taboo
How much of the Brazilian film
Do Começo Ao Fim [
From Beginning to End, 2009] do I find fascinating because of its taboo storyline? Directed by Aluizio Abranches, the film without its scandalous premise looks like an ordinary glossy love story, and runs like one, feels like one, and is photographed like one. Except for that intriguing, scandalous fact that this is about incest. Which gets me thinking: the ordinary becomes something else, something charged, solely because of context. Images are nothing except what we bring to it. We create our own tension, our own moral outrage, and project them on what are just essentially blank slates. Am I trying to say that all art is innocent then, and meaning ultimately becomes the province of the beholder? Perhaps. It’s a thought I’m processing, still wholly unconvinced by my own idea — but it’s a thought. [I also kept expecting the film to go in the route of tragedy, as the history of narrative has taught me to expect, to “punish” the characters for their “amorality” by assigning appropriate violence and redemption. A lot of films, and books, do that. Joselito Altarejos’
Ang Lihim ni Antonio, for example. But the fact that it didn’t felt both like a cheat, and like a gratifying upending of my own own curious expectations.]
Labels: film, queer
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