Friday, February 28, 2025
1:40 PM |
From French Kissers to Small People Adrift
Part 3 of the 2024 Oscar Shorts Considered
It is quite telling that of the fifteen animated short films that were shortlisted for the Oscars last December, the five that eventually made the cut and the nomination—Beautiful Men, In the Shadow of the Cypress, Magic Candies, Wander to Wonder, and Yuck!—only one was in my Top 5. Not that I didn’t like the rest of them. In fact, they are all quite good, and the nominations are totally deserved. I just liked other shortlisted titles better. That is how amazing the animation field—including both the shorts and the features—has been in the past year. As I’ve noted earlier, walang patapon.
I can see why Nicolas Keppens’ Beautiful Men made the cut. It is a beautiful dour, sarcastically funny story about three balding brothers who travel to Istanbul to get a hair transplant, and stuck with each other in a hotel far from home, their insecurities grow faster than their hair. There is always something of this kind of atmosphere in an animated short that makes it a must on the finalist round—as if the animation branch of the Academy feels the need to check themselves and say, “Hey, cartoons are not just for kids.”
But given that, what to make Jean-Sébastien Hamel and Alexandra Myotte’s A Crab in the Pool, which didn’t make the cut? It is a zany and psychedelic French look at puberty and the crushing insecurities and hormonal urges of adolescence, with an equally crushing subterfuge of death and loss, and I fell in love with this short film as soon as I finished it and realized its import: how—in its story of young siblings (an older sister and a younger brother)—we often turn to imagination to make sense of the tiny earthquakes in our lives. And what to make of Torill Kove’s Maybe Elephants, which also didn’t make the cut? It is the story of a globe-trotting family—courtesy of the mother who gets the occasional urge to leave and uproot their lives—and who finally find themselves in Nairobi where their three teenage daughters finally rebel to seek some antidote to restlessness, even as they themselves, as adolescents, find their inner lives turned upside down. It is a mature story about restlessness and roots—with an ending that approximates a kind of peace everyone is looking for.
I can see why Hossein Molayemi and Shirin Sohani’s In the Shadow of the Cypress got the nod. This Iranian short film is about a former captain who suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, and has chosen to live, with his young daughter, in a humble house by the sea. They live an isolated life together, daily confronting the harsh challenges that come their way—but a gulf remains between them, until an unforeseen event (a whale beaching ashore) somehow changes the course of their lives. The animation of this film is dreamy in its simplicity, and the environmental and psychological story tugs at you because it is rendered so well emotionally.
But what of Tod Polson’s The 21, which didn’t get nominated? Like the war-tinged tale of Cypress, this one is the true story of the twenty-one Coptic men who were martyred by ISIS in Libya in 2015. The animation—produce in the style of Coptic iconography—is beautiful, in perfect contrast to its subject matter, which is horrifying. In the beginning, this short reminded me of the [odious] Chick Tracts I used to read and devour as an evangelical child, which often used the stories of the suffering of Christians in foreign cultures as missionary propaganda—but I also needed to check myself: This story is nevertheless true, and the victims were Coptic Christians under the tyranny of terrorists. In the end I needed to disregard religion and just focus on the basic inhumanity of this story: killing people just because they have a different faith than you is the ultimate inhumanity so far from any divine promise. That goes to adherents of all faiths. And what to make of Iain Gardner’s A Bear Named Wojtek, which also didn’t get nominated? It is another true story about another war—World War II to be exact—about a displaced and orphaned bear who finds itself in the company of a troop of Polish soldiers, forms an inseparable bond with them, and finds itself an unlikely war hero. Unlike 21, this one ends happily—but both remind us about the horrors of war, and the inhumanity it can breed.
I can see why Loïc Espuche’s Yuck! made it to the finals. Adult subject matters may intrude once in a while in the animated short film category, but a cartoon that’s clearly for kids [and the adults who delight in their kiddie charms] will still be a shoo-in for a nomination. This one is a humorous take on kids finding kissing on the mouth—done by gross adults—totally gross. [Kissing in the film is highlighted by the kissers’ lips turning bright and incandescent purple.] It centers on Léo, who laughs at these kissers together with his gross-out friends at a summer camp—but he has a secret he won’t tell his friends: his own mouth has actually begun glistening, and he wants to kiss a friend, who also wants to kiss him back. The humor in this child-centered tale is the magic formula for nomination.
Which might explain why Daisuke “Dice” Tsutsumi’s Bottle George also didn’t make it. It makes a case for alcoholism and domestic abuse, and it does so by exploring the relationship between George, a man trapped inside a small bottle, and Chako, a young, poor, resilient girl who is scared of her alcoholic father. It has a child at its center—but the subject matter is too dark to be embraced. There is humor too in Goodbye My World [directed by Florian Maurice, Astrid Novais, Estelle Bonnardel, Baptiste Duchamps, Quentin Devred, and Maxime Foltzer]—but it’s about a man dressed in a fish costume, who suddenly finds the world coming to an end—and then he spends the last moments of the world on a wild scooter ride across downtown, crossing the chaos to reach a mysterious tower—to reach his [spoiler]. It’s all warmhearted, but the darkness of the apocalypse might be too much to warrant a nomination.
I can see why Daisuke Nishio’s Magic Candies got nominated. This Japanese short film is a delight! The story follows a boy named Dong-Dong, who never gets invited by the other kids to play—but he does not mind, since he’s fine just playing marbles on his own. Then one day, he buys a bag of colorful candies, which, when eaten, gives him an uncanny ability to see fantastical renderings of things and concepts. It was an enjoyable romp—although it made me think: is this kind of like a pro-drugs allegory? But I might be over-reading.
But what of Don Hertzfeldt’s Me, which is equally surreal as Magic Candies? Hertzfeld has always been one of my favorite animators. His World of Tomorrow and It’s Such a Beautiful Day are both must-sees if you care for animation that is substantive as much as they are fun. In his new film, he creates a more opaque, if tantalizingly non-linear, tale, which he calls “a musical odyssey about trauma and the retreat of humanity into itself.” The film, in its occasional foray into abstraction, is less accessible than his older ones, which might be why he got left off the final list—even if Hertzfeld is a former nominee. Sometimes abstraction can be a hindrance to appreciating a short animated film’s gifts. This is the case of Kei Kanamori’s Origami, which also didn’t get the nomination. Alas, the delightful film can be reduced into being just a playful and abstract romp through the art of paper-folding—even if the animation is topnotch and truly engaging. [But then again, PES got an Oscar nomination in 2012 for Fresh Guacamole, a two-minute abstract Claymation romp about the making of guacamole—not from avocado, but from everyday things found around the house.] Abstraction hindrance is certainly the case for why Anna Samo’s The Wild-Tempered Clavier, my least favorite title of the lot, did not make the cut. The film approaches abstraction in its use of toilet paper as film material, with whatever story there is being painted onto the sheets while the toilet paper is unrolled, like you would a film—all the while using the immortal music of Bach as background. I had no patience for the exercise.
Laura Gonçalves and Alexandra Ramires’ Percebes is an anomaly among all the shortlisted, unnominated titles, because neither is it abstract nor nonlinear. The Portuguese film uses the sea and urban Algarve as backdrop, and in it we follow the complete life cycle of a special shellfish called percebes—the goose barnacle. The animation, while interesting, is a bit off-putting, and the whole film comes off as a dry attempt at a National Geographic documentary. I immediately forgot what it was all about the moment I finished watching it. I understand why it didn’t get the nomination.
This leaves Nina Gantz’s Wander to Wonder, the only film in my Top 5 that also got a nomination. It deserves it, because of its conceit, its style, its humor, and its darkness. A captivating stop-motion animated short that masterfully blends nostalgia with dark humor, it centers on three miniature humanlike characters—Mary, Billybud, and Fumbleton—who once starred in a 1980s children’s television program. Following the sudden death of their creator and host, Uncle Gilly, the trio is left isolated in the studio, striving to continue their show amidst growing despair and dwindling resources. Gantz’s direction skillfully juxtaposes the innocent charm of vintage children’s programming with an unsettling atmosphere, creating a unique viewing experience. The meticulous animation pays homage to the era’s aesthetics, while the narrative delves into themes of grief, isolation, and the struggle to find purpose after loss. The characters' attempts to maintain normalcy—such as reading fan letters and producing episodes—are both poignant and darkly comedic.
Wander to Wonder has garnered critical acclaim, winning awards at festivals like Anima Brussels and receiving nominations for prestigious honors, including the BAFTA. Its inventive storytelling and distinctive visual style make it a standout piece in contemporary animation, offering a thought-provoking exploration of the intersection between childhood innocence and the complexities of adult realities. I hope it wins the Oscar for Best Animated Short.
Here is my ranking of all the animated short films, including the unnominated titles:
[1] A Crab in the Pool
[2] Maybe Elephants
[3] Wander to Wonder
[4] The 21
[5] Me
[6]Yuck!
[7] Origami
[8] Magic Candies
[9] Bottle George
[10] Goodbye My World
[11] A Bear Named Wojtek
[12] Beautiful Men
[13] In the Shadow of the Cypress
[14] Percebes
[15] The Wild-Tempered Clavier
Labels: animation, film, life, oscar, short films
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Thursday, February 27, 2025
6:36 PM |
Gene Hackman, 1930-2025
What a way to go, a mysterious death. It feels very dramatic, if sadly so. Gene Hackman will always be embedded in my young memory as a bumbling villain in Superman, my introduction to him. I have since loved, and have come to respect, the work he did in more iconic films such as The French Connection and Unforgiven and Bonnie and Clyde and The Conversation and The Birdcage, but I actually loved him the most in a disaster movie, The Poseidon Adventure. Like his character in that movie, he always looked like somebody who knew his way through life [or disaster], and stuck to it. That stance is to stan for. His retirement from film was met with much dismay, and we never got to see another film with him with this mysterious death. Rest in peace, Mr. Hackman. Labels: celebrity, obituary
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, February 26, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 228.
Labels: poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, February 23, 2025
9:00 AM |
CityMall and Other Frustrations
Let’s be real—the gentleness of any city has its limits, even a city that takes to that quality as the essence of its popular tagline.
But gentleness frays at the edges when traffic is constantly baffling, when tricycles crawl at a glacial pace, when motorcycles weave through lanes as if traffic rules are optional, when a plague of cars block entire streets. [Honestly, where did all these cars come from? They all just appeared out of the blue, in this number, after the lockdown of the pandemic.]
Gentleness also disappears when Brownout Sundays become a thing, and you are awakened early in the morning to the buckets of sweat covering your body because the electricity is out—and will only come back on twelve hours later. The generator backup? If it exists, it’s probably struggling just as much as you are.
Gentleness takes flight when you go to the public market, and the prices have mysteriously changed overnight. You buy mangoes one day for ₱80 per kilo. The next day? ₱120. Why? The vendor shrugs. It’s market magic in the time of runaway inflation—the prices change depending on who’s asking and how clueless they look.
Gentleness goes on a holiday when garbage collection follows no schedule. You leave your trash out on the assigned day, only to watch stray dogs tear into it because, surprise! The garbage truck decided not to show up. [Or worse, it came early and left before you even had a chance to bring your trash out.]
Gentleness is gone when you realize Dumaguete is still very much a small town, and hence still prone to being an inescapable gossip machine. Nothing spreads faster in Dumaguete than tsismis. Say something in confidence to one person, and by the next day, the entire city has a slightly exaggerated version of your story. Privacy? Good luck with that.
But it’s not always about Dumaguete that gets my goat. Frustrations have no geographical limits.
So I think of overzealous karaoke sessions—someone in your neighborhood belting out an off-key version of “My Way” at full volume.
I think of yet another Grab Food delivery that’s missing an item, or when the driver insists you received everything even though the receipt tells another story.
I think of the passive aggression of some people I know. For some, this is just another sport practiced to perfection, where compliments feel like daggers, and words are laced with saccharine malice. “Oh, I didn’t expect you to get that opportunity. Good for you!” Or, “Wow, you’re so brave for wearing that.”
The worst part? Not being believed. When you speak a truth and watch the person in front of you dismiss it, as if reality were subjective, as if facts were just suggestions.
I think of bandwagon critical pile-up—where the moment a narrative takes hold, it’s nearly impossible to undo, no matter how much it’s exposed as a lie.
I think of hypocrisy. Especially the social media warriors who scream “makibaka” but have vast family wealth to fall back on—those who decry capitalism while lounging in their air-conditioned living rooms, sipping on overpriced lattes. I think of the virtue signalers who rush to condemn but refuse to self-reflect.
I think of the insidious rise of ignorance-as-a-virtue. It’s one thing not to know something, but it’s another to flaunt it like a badge of honor.
I think of the critical bon mot of something, especially art, being “a product of its time,” and no longer worth considering in the appraisal of the contemporary. Why should art speak for all time? Isn’t there value for art’s specificity of time, permitting it to reflect its currency no matter how wrongheaded it may be in the future? Should we only make art that predicts what becomes in vogue fifty years from now? Are we clairvoyants, or are we chroniclers?
I think of Hedwig.
And finally, I think of my current shrine of frustration: CityMall Dumaguete.
It is the pinnacle of inconvenience, the crown jewel of disappointment. On Brownout Sundays, its generator conks out, turning the mall into a dim sweatbox. Its stores? Unremarkable. Its tiled floors? Cracks and ruin everywhere. The comfort rooms? Barely functional, and if you’re watching a movie from its one and only movie theater, you might as well take a pilgrimage when you hear nature calling. The CR, you will find, is located ten thousand miles away.
But the last straw? Last weekned. When we watched Captain America: Brave New World, and after the last full show, went to the second floor rooftop parking—only to find the exit locked up. No warning, no announcement—just a security guard smugly declaring to us: “We close the mall at 9 PM.” Never mind that you’ve watched movies at CityMall and finished past ten before, and this never happened. (How else to get to your parked car? Their answer: go the long way, up the outdoor ramp. Like, WTF.) Never mind that there’s no logical reason for this nonsense. It’s perhaps just another day in Dumaguete, where annoyances can pile up—but somehow, despite it all, we stay.
Why do things annoy us? Annoyance, at its core, is born from expectation. We expect fairness, we expect reason, and we expect reason a semblance of order. We expect our food to arrive as we ordered it, we expect reason our opinions to be considered in good faith, we expect reason our trips to the mall to be convenient rather than an exercise in endurance. When these expectations are betrayed, irritation follows.
I do wish for something to be gained from having to experience these small frustrations. Perhaps annoyances are there to remind us that we care? Perhaps they highlight what matters to us—such as efficiency, honesty, fairness, and consideration? Perhaps they invite us to cultivate patience? Resilience? Maybe even a sense of humor?
I know that to live life—in Dumaguete or elsewhere—is to embrace its quirks, its contradictions, and even its exasperating moments. I hope I can learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all. I hope to find that these annoyances aren’t just obstacles, but are things that make life feel real, unpredictable, and ultimately, unforgettable.
But who am I kidding.
I am never going back to CityMall ever again.
Labels: life
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, February 19, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 227.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, February 16, 2025
9:00 AM |
The Other Kind of Inflation
At the height of the COVID-19 lockdown, I was one of several people commissioned by the Cultural Center of the Philippines to write the obituaries of artists who had passed on between the pandemic years of 2020 and 2023. It was a grim task, but the rationale was noble: to commemorate the lives of these Filipino artists for their contribution to Philippine culture—big or small—in a time when we were surrounded by so much death, and so much uncertainties. I readily said yes to the task, since I had always been a fan of how The New York Times did their obituaries [in fact, one of my favorite documentaries is Obit, directed by Vanessa Gould and released in 2016, which chronicled the work of these writers and the choice of their peculiar genre of writing]. And for some reason, then and now, I have always felt the need to write the obituaries of Filipino writers when they pass on, because I am often frustrated by how meager the writeups about them often are in mainstream media.
Writing those obituaries for the CCP felt like a necessity. By then, I had developed a system of research that enabled me to write a considerable tribute—scraping all corners of the Internet to find information, and approaching willing members of grieving families for a little bit more I cannot find online. [When is their birthday? Where is their birthplace? Where did they study, and what degree did they earn? Questions like that.] Part of the exercise was, of course, verifying the information I’d get—and this was where I usually found myself chuckling. Because, with all due respect to the dead, a number of them do inflate their accomplishments.
I still remember writing one such obituary for a musician. In his bio, he mentioned having studied in the U.S., and tutored by such and such teacher. This is par for the course of musicians. When they release their biodata for writeups in concert programs, they do mention the music schools they studied in, and the music masters they studied under. This gives credibility to their training, especially if those teachers are world-renowned musicians themselves, or their schools are sacred training grounds for music. I took this dead musician’s biodata, and inputted his claims in my prospective writeup—and then came the verification: it turned out the school he mentioned was not a music school but a high school he attended for one year in an exchange program, and the teachers he mentioned were not musicians but his high school music teachers. Far from my immediate assumption of him studying under masters in an incredible music school! I did not include these details in the final obit I made of him. The rest of what he did in the Philippines was enough.
So, yes, there is such a thing as inflating one’s accomplishments.
Over the past year, I caught two news stories—splashed with congratulatory headlines and with such drama on the media outlets they were published in—that are examples of this kind of inflation.
I remember reading about an author being celebrated for the fact that he was being published by Barnes and Noble! It sounded incredible, and to the uninitiated, truly worthy of praise. But I immediately thought: Barnes and Noble is not a publisher, it’s a bookstore, so how could this be? It turned out, the author being extolled had merely released an e-book, and it was being offered for sale on NOOK, Barnes and Noble’s own version of the Kindle. This is not the same as being published by a major publisher.
I remember reading about a visual artist being celebrated for the fact that she was being exhibited at the Louvre Museum in Paris! It sounded incredible, and to the uninitiated, truly enviable. But I immediately thought: the Louvre is not a commercial gallery, it is a repository of fine arts as collected by France, so how could this be? It turned out, the artist was being exhibited at the Carrousel du Louvre, an underground shopping mall that had direct access to the famed museum. This is not the same as being exhibited by the finest fine arts institution in Paris.
This essay was actually occasioned by a tweet from film critic Jason Tan Liwag, who posted on X [formerly Twitter] last February 9: “There's a difference between the Cannes Film Festival and other film festivals simply held in Cannes.” I was intrigued.
It turned out there is a filmmaker that media is currently crowing about, regarding his being “invited” to the Cannes Film Festival—which is truly an honor for any film artist. One headline reads: “How a late-blooming director conquered the international film scene.” The article describes his film as “becoming a finalist at the prestigious Cannes Film Festival.”
Nice.
It turned out he was not at all invited by Cannes artistic director Thierry Frémaux to be part of the main competition, or even in any of Cannes’ official parallel competitions every May, such as the Un Certain Regard or the Directors' Fortnight or the Tous les Cinémas du Mond. But his film actually participated at the Cannes World Film Festival—which is a totally different festival, also held at Cannes every June, with no ties to the official Festival de Cannes. [I also remember another filmmaker crowing about participating in Cannes. It turned out his film was merely hawked at one of those exhibitor markets that are corollary to festivals such as Cannes, and which anyone with a film to sell can join.]
There is a certain species of person who cannot resist the impulse to inflate their accomplishments. You know them. You have seen them. Perhaps you have even, in a moment of weakness, succumbed to this temptation yourself. In faculty lounges, in alumni reunions, in the halcyon corners of cocktail parties, they hold court with grand pronouncements of triumphs often unverifiable. And yet, their audience nods along, some in admiration, others in veiled amusement. The Bisaya word for this is “hambog,” a label so easily affixed to anyone whose self-confidence tips, ever so slightly, into boastfulness. But what compels people to do this? What primal need is satisfied by exaggeration?
Psychologists might tell us that this tendency stems from a deep-seated insecurity. Alfred Adler, that old rival of Freud, would perhaps explain this as a classic case of overcompensation—a defense mechanism meant to mask one’s private feelings of inadequacy. A struggling writer, unpublished but desperate for literary recognition, might inflate the significance of a rejected manuscript by calling it “highly praised” by editors who merely sent a polite rejection letter. A businessman, teetering on the edge of financial ruin, might exaggerate his recent successes to maintain an air of affluence. It is a survival tactic, a way of keeping up appearances, because in a society that equates achievement with worth, to be seen as ordinary is to be invisible.
And yet, there is also something deeper, something almost cultural at play. The Filipino psyche, shaped by centuries of colonial rule and the relentless pursuit of social mobility, is uniquely susceptible to the need for validation. Our histories are punctuated by stories of social climbing—by ilustrados who flaunted their European education, by politicians whose surnames become brands, by socialites who name-drop the hacenderos of old, or by so-called historians who has no published historiography but whose claim to fame is alleged kinship to every single important family in the province. To declare one’s success, even in embellished form, is to assert one’s place in the hierarchy, to ward off the creeping dread of being relegated to irrelevance.
There is, too, the simple seduction of storytelling. The line between truth and embellishment is often blurred, especially in a culture that values wit and oratory. To tell a good story—one that elicits gasps of admiration or knowing chuckles—is often more important than strict adherence to fact. This is why a provincial mayor’s minor government project might be presented as “nationwide reform,” or why an academic’s modest conference paper might be rebranded as “groundbreaking research.” The mythologizing of the self is an art form, honed over years of careful curation. And in the age of social media, where the highlight reel of one’s life is curated for public consumption, the temptation to embellish becomes all the more irresistible.
But what does this do to the people who practice it? If a lie is told often enough, does it not become a kind of truth? There is an inherent danger in believing one’s own exaggerations. To convince oneself that an exaggerated accomplishment is real is to become complacent, to cease striving for genuine achievement. This is why a society that rewards the illusion of success often stagnates. When merit is measured not by substance but by perception, we create a culture of empty accolades, of self-proclaimed experts who have mastered the art of self-promotion but lack the depth of true expertise.
The antidote to this, I think, is a return to quiet competence, to an ethic of humility that values work over recognition. Some of the greatest minds in history have been those who labored in obscurity, more concerned with the quality of their work than with the applause it might garner. The true measure of one’s worth is not found in how loudly one declares one’s success, but in the silent impact one leaves in the wake of genuine accomplishment.
Labels: life, psychology
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Saturday, February 15, 2025
3:58 PM |
Ardor for Arbour
We write this in leave-taking. By the time this essay sees print, Arbour—the restaurant along Hibbard Avenue near Bantayan which had delighted the most discriminating food lovers in Dumaguete since its establishment at the height of the pandemic—would have closed, leaving behind its namesake now gracing the restaurant at Silver Reef Resort in Dauin. In a sense, Arbour will still be with us. But that mint green enclave of culinary goodness in Bantayan will be much-missed.
But we caught one of its last services for Valentines Day, so in a sense, this is also a love letter of sorts to chef Jan Schlimme and wife Jen, whom we first met in Dumaguete at the height of the pandemic—in October 2021, to be exact. They were vacationing in Bacolod from restaurant work in Hong Kong when the lockdown happened, and as the tolls of the pandemic turned into a long certainty, both answered a call to do food consulting for Casablanca Restaurant in Dumaguete. It was supposed to be a short stay: just revamp the Casablanca menu to suit pandemic realities, and then go back to Bacolod or elsewhere. But as with the usual, the Schlimmes found themselves “na-dagit” in Dumaguete, and in December of 2021, they found themselves establishing Arbour, what they envisioned to be a modern European restaurant nestled in Dumaguete.
We’ve loved Arbour’s fares since its beginnings, but this Valentine dinner proved to be something else.
One might expect bombast suited for couples celebrating love on love day itself—but what we liked about our Valentine dinner at Arbour was its restraint. There is a quiet artistry to restraint. In the culinary world, where excess is often mistaken for excellence, true mastery lies in knowing when to hold back. Arbour, helmed by the deft hands of head chef Jan Schlimme, understands this. In a city like Dumaguete—where the abundance of imported goods tempts restaurants into over-reliance on the exotic—Arbour does something radical: it trusts its ingredients, it allows them to shine on the plate. Here, the stars of the meal are not the truffle oils or the aged cheeses, but the produce, fresh and immediate, speaking in flavors unmasked by pretense. Arbour makes the flavor of their ingredients their main star attraction, and rather than to mask the basic components, their adept use of seasoning enhances the flavors of each element, pushed to their limit by the addition of just enough salt and pepper.
The journey begins with a plate that feels like the memory of an afternoon garden. The roasted beetroot salad, vibrant in its deep magenta, is an ode to the earth’s sweetness. The beets and carrots, slow-roasted until their sugars bloom, find a sharp foil in the herbed goat cheese, its tang cutting through like a breeze. There is a kind of poetry in this contrast—take note of the soft caramelization of root vegetables against the assertive creaminess of cheese. The dill fronds and lettuce greens lend their crispness, a whisper of freshness that lifts the dish from the soil into the air. It is, in many ways, a microcosm of Arbour itself: simplicity rendered with precision, a dish that knows exactly what it wants to be.
Then there is the salmon, pan-seared to that elusive point where the skin crackles but the flesh still yields at the touch of a fork. It comes with creamed potatoes, a comforting counterweight, and cucumbers that sing in cool, clean notes. What is remarkable is how the dish avoids the heaviness often associated with cream and oil. The balance is meticulous—enough seasoning to coax out the natural flavors, never enough to overshadow them. Here, every element has a role to play, and each one performs it to perfection.
The braised beef cheek arrives next, steeped in a red wine sauce that speaks of slow afternoons and patient craftsmanship. The meat falls apart at the suggestion of a spoon, its richness cut by the gentle char of green onion. Julienne carrots, bound in a delicate green ribbon, add a touch of visual poetry. There is nostalgia here—the unshakable warmth of beef and potatoes, a partnership as old as time. Yet, there is also refinement: the subtle elevation of flavor, the understanding that indulgence need not be overwhelming. A slice of bread would have been a welcome addition, something to sop up every last drop of sauce, but even without it, the dish stands whole, assured.
The meal closes with a flourish: a vanilla crème, lush and thick, paired with fresh strawberries, a bright compote, and a dark, silken ganache. It is an elegant echo of childhood indulgence—the trio of vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate familiar yet new. Again, richness versus freshness ebb and flow throughout eating this dish: a spoonful of the vanilla crème and chocolate ganache in one bite then fresh strawberries and mint in the other. The strawberry compote adds a touch of acidity and sweetness. An added element of a salted biscuit crumb would have brought this dessert into new heights, but as is it closes the meal succinctly. Arbour understands when to stop. And that is its magic.
We will miss Arbour as it existed in Bantayan since 2021. European food borne in the tropics has its unique obstacles to overcome. Despite the abundance of suppliers in Dumaguete for processed food like cured meats, cheeses, and dairy products, Arbour never relies on these ingredients as trump cards to make good dishes. We’ve found that these ingredients, in Jan Schlimme’s hands, are supporting characters to the real highlight, which is the fresh produce.
Thank you for three years of good food, Arbour.
[Written with Renz Torres for “Culinary Cuts” for Dumaguete MetroPost, 16 February 2025 issue]
Labels: dumaguete, food, pandemic, review
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 226.
Labels: philippine literature, poetry
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Tuesday, February 11, 2025
11:42 PM |
Naps and Lost Time
I was working for a bit but became sleepy, so I went for a nap late in the afternoon. This turned out to be real sleep, only to be woken up to the sounds of Renz coming in to the apartment. I thought it was morning. I asked, “What time is it?” He says, “Ten o’clock.” I was like: Oh no, I overslept for a meeting. I asked, just to make sure: “It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” He says: “It’s Tuesday.” And I was like: Oh no, Renz is confused about his days. Then I asked, just to be clear: “Is it morning or evening?” He says: “Evening.” I was like: Oh, thank God, but wasn’t I supposed to only take a nap? The endless battle with sleepiness.Labels: adhd, life, mental health
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, February 09, 2025
9:00 AM |
My Favorite Third Space
Anyone who knows me well enough knows where to find me in Dumaguete, if they really wanted to find me. Because people who know best know I never [usually] answer text messages, and emails [and Viber and WhatsApp] are things I cursorily do once in a blue moon, preferring to centralize all forms of electronic messaging via Messenger. It’s part of the challenges I bear as someone with neurodivergence. We are not designed to be so reachable in so many platforms, which is why I have limited all these access to a few manageable channels.
There is always a constant need to declutter my head and to find a space to find the best kind of quiet that allows me to function my best. Space is an important thing to consider: like everyone else, we primarily inhabit two—the space we do our work in [i.e., our offices, etc.] and the space we call home and where we rest, where we partake of our ritual meals, where we allow ourselves to seed. But we also need the so-called “third space.” And this is the place that somehow finds common ground with the best aspects of our first two spaces—and also where we get to connect with other people in an informal way, and with our relaxed selves. This is also the space where you allow yourself to stretch and be creative, on your own terms.
For many, a good park is enough of a third space. This is why places like M.L. Quezon Park—which is really not a park, but a plaza—and the Rizal Boulevard, especially the Pantawan area, are popular for many Dumaguetenos. Here, everyone does their thing but in community with many other people. Sometimes we Zumba or do ballroom dancing. Sometimes we jog around these areas, or do tai chi. Sometimes we sing karaoke, fish, eat at the tempurahan, or just hang out in the open with our friends. Third spaces are essential for these very human activities, and the very human connection they foster.
I love these places, too, but my preferred third space has always been cafes. And in Dumaguete, I have had a string of favorite cafes to hang out in. Fresh off college, my favorite place was Café Memento [housed in what is now Sizzlers]. Then there was the old Don Atilano along Rizal Avenue [which is now 1988 Bistro]. Then there was KRI. And for the longest time, my other home was Qyosko along Calle Sta. Rosa, especially when it was a 24-hour bistro. I would always go there after work—to relax, to get coffee, to eat my dinner, and to accomplish the many things I needed to do. It was in Qyosko that I finished writing my MA thesis. It was in Qyosko where I assembled my first two books. It was in Qyosko where I met with so many friends and brainstormed with like-minded people such events as the Silliman Film Open. When Qyosko closed last year, it felt like a piece of my history was erased. This is how vital our third spaces are for us. They are part of the fabric of our being.
These days, Café Estacion, a stone’s throw away from the where Qyosko was located, mostly serve the same capacity as that beloved bistro—especially given the fact that they close late, and serve good coffee. [Many students in Dumaguete seem to agree with me, because Café Estacion is always swarming with them.] And sometimes, when I feel the need for a good dose of quiet—enough to soothe my anxieties and my whirling ADHD-addled brain—I go to Hemmingway Coffee Lounge along Don Diego de la Viña Road.
But if you really want to find me in Dumaguete, you can do so right in this corner of Rizal Avenue at The Bricks Hotel—which they used to call Caña—where I read, write, reflect, and breathe outside the obligations of home and work. This is my sanctuary, my favorite “third space”—the place that allows me to be neither professor nor householder, but simply a person at rest, gathering thoughts, allowing them to settle before they take shape in words.
The coffee is always within reach, and the staff, familiar and warm, know me well enough to sense when I need conversation or when I need silence. [It’s mostly quiet, and I am always obliged. So, thank you, Gem. Thank you, Glenn. Thank you, Steve. Thank you, Nico. Thank you, Pam. Thank you, Paddie.]
From where I sit, I like what I see: the Rizal Boulevard is only a few strides away, and every day from my chosen table at Bricks, I see the blue of the sky and the horizon blending, and I hear the whirr of traffic on this busy stretch of Dumaguete City. It’s mostly cool, but even on the hottest days, the breeze from the Bohol Sea drifts in, steady and unfailing. I like that I can look up at any moment and see the horizon. I need that. I am an island boy, and I need the sea.
A city like Dumaguete thrives on spaces like this, places that exist somewhere between solitude and community. It is, after all, a city that invites contemplation, that allows for slowness without guilt. In a world that insists on urgency, I think this is a gift. Some call Dumaguete the “city of gentle people,” but I have come to think of it as the “city of quiet makers”—writers, artists, thinkers—who seek places where they can create undisturbed yet still feel tethered to life’s small movements.
I think about all the times I have sat here, in this spot, watching the quiet choreography of Rizal Avenue. [Please do note the distinction: the street is Rizal Avenue, the promenade is Rizal Boulevard.] Couples walk by in slow conversation, and sometimes I see students pore over their school notes on the seawall. Vendors call out their wares, runners pass by, their steps rhythmic against the pavement. The city unfolds in these small, unscripted scenes, and I’d sit here, my notebook [or my laptop] in hand, trying to catch the poetry of it all, trying to find the meaning in the mundane.
Dumaguete has always been a haven for writers and other creatives like me, for those who need a space between their minds and the world. The acacia trees lining the streets, the bells of the old cathedral, the golden shimmer of the boulevard at dusk—these are not just landmarks; they are part of a larger rhythm, a kind of unspoken permission to pause and listen.
A third space is necessary, I think, for anyone who seeks to create. It is where the mind unwinds, where thoughts settle into patterns, where stories are born. It is a place of arrival and departure, a liminal space between obligation and freedom. Dumaguete, with its open-air cafés, its quiet corners, its endless horizon, offers this in a way few cities do. This is why some people pass through, but others, like me, find themselves staying, unable to leave the rhythm of the sea, the hush of the boulevard, the comfort of knowing there is always a place to sit and simply be.
Not far from here, at the edge of the Rizal Boulevard, I sometimes see fishermen push their boats into the water in the early morning, their silhouettes dark against the rising sun. And in the afternoons, I see children chase each other along the concrete walk of the promenade, their laughter carried by the wind. Life continues like that, in small, steady beats, in Dumaguete.
And I sit here, my coffee cooling in its cup, the waves rolling in and out, in and out—Dumaguete’s quiet, steady heart still pulsing, still holding space for those of us who need it.
Labels: life, third spaces
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Wednesday, February 05, 2025
9:30 PM |
The Duende of Lost Things
We were finally convinced today that some mischievous duende has been playing tricks on us. In the span of two weeks, we’ve been losing things: Renz his watch (twice), and then his notebook; Tita Melisa with her power bank; and me with my wallet, my coin purse, and my PWD card — but in my case, all thankfully recovered. And I’ve been really mindful of my things actually. Tonight, for example, before heading out to dinner after a full day of meetings, we were laughing about me misplacing my wallet, and I was waving it around before I placed it in its usual spot in my bag. Then we went to the ATM to withdraw some money, and when I tried to retrieve my wallet, it was gone — only to be found in a totally different pocket of my bag. Like, what the hey? Duende, be gone! Labels: life
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7:00 AM |
Poetry Wednesday, No. 225.
Labels: poetry
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Sunday, February 02, 2025
9:00 AM |
Why We Read Together
Once a month since last July, we arrive—mostly quietly—with our books at the Arts and Design Collective Dumaguete along E.J. Blanco Drive, home of Libraria Books. One by one, we come—all of us readers in Dumaguete—some early, and some late; we settle, we say hello; we nod, and smile. We filter into some cozy corners of the old house, or on fluffy chairs, or on the floormat, each of us carrying a book. Some bring fiction, some poetry, some nonfiction. Once in a while, some even bring college textbooks. [Not kidding. For our January session, someone brought Nigel Benson’s The Psychology Book.] Most would bring actual books, although some are content with electronic devices, like a Kindle. Some would first go to Fermentina Café to get drinks, or to Mister Saigon to grab a quick bite.
And then, when 6 PM comes, Libraria’s Gayle Acar welcomes everyone. She is the host. She reminds us of a few rules to begin the session—you can bring any book of your choice; you need to keep your phones on mute; you will read in two 30-minute blocks of reading time [with a 10-minute break in between]; you don’t have to expect a book discussion because this is not required.
And then a shared silence takes hold. A novel opens, a page turns, a deep breath is taken, and then we read. It is a ritual as simple as it is profound: a group of people choosing to read together, not for discussion, not for obligation, but simply for the joy of reading.
This is a fairly new thing in Dumaguete, even though the city has always had the rhythm of a literary town that it is. It is a place where the written word is as much a part of daily life as the sea breeze that drifts in from the Rizal Boulevard. Writers and readers, students and teachers, artists and dreamers all find a kind of quiet solace here, whether in the century-old halls of Silliman University, in the pages of a book borrowed from someone’s personal library, or in the unhurried conversations that unfold over coffee in one of the city’s many small cafés. Literature thrives here—not just in the texts produced by its poets and novelists but also in the way people live with books, in the way reading itself is woven into the city’s fabric.
It is no surprise then that Silent Book Club has found its place in Dumaguete. This global movement has grown into a phenomenon spanning cities and continents, and in a place like Dumaguete—where reading is already an everyday act—it feels like a natural fit. Unlike traditional book clubs that revolve around assigned readings and structured discussions, Silent Book Club offers something more flexible, more personal. Readers gather in a chosen space, settle in with their books, and read in shared silence. There is no required novel to analyze, no expectation to articulate a critique. Just the simple joy of reading, alone but together.
Dumaguete’s literary reputation is deeply rooted in its history. The Silliman University National Writers Workshop, the oldest of its kind in Asia, has shaped generations of Filipino writers, drawing emerging voices from across the country to engage in critical discussions about craft and storytelling. Beyond the workshop, Dumaguete has long been a hub for literary gatherings, from poetry readings to book launches, from late-night conversations about writing to impromptu storytelling sessions in quiet corners of cafés. [Last year, we initiated the first Dumaguete Literary Festival, and its second edition is slated on April 2025.]
Silent Book Club, in its own way, continues this Dumaguete literary tradition while offering an alternative space for local readers who simply want to immerse themselves in books without the weight of critique. It acknowledges that literature is not just about discourse but also about presence, about companionship in solitude. And for a city that already embraces literature in all its forms, this quiet movement feels like an extension of an already thriving culture.
The concept of Silent Book Club was born out of a simple need: to create a reading community without the pressures of traditional book clubs. Guinevere de la Mare and Laura Gluhanich, two friends in San Francisco, started meeting in 2012 in a wine bar with their books, realizing that they enjoyed the presence of others who were similarly engaged in quiet reading. What began as a small gathering soon spread across cities worldwide, with each chapter adopting its own unique approach to hosting reading sessions. In the Philippines, beyond Dumaguete, there are Silent Book Clubs in Manila, in Iloilo, in Baguio, and in Cagayan de Oro City.
Unlike structured book clubs that require a commitment to specific titles, Silent Book Club welcomes all kinds of readers. It is inclusive in its simplicity: anyone can join, bringing whatever book they are currently reading, staying as long as they like. There is no need to finish a chapter by a deadline, no obligation to offer insights—only the act of reading itself.
I think this stance is perfectly right in the kind of word we live in, which constantly demands engagement—whether through social media, work, or the general busyness of life. Silent Book Club, in a way, offers a kind of resistance to this expectation of contemporary life. It is a reminder that reading can be a slow, deliberate act, and one that does not need to be productive or performative. It is merely enough to sit with a book, to lose oneself in its pages, to turn the act of reading into a shared but deeply personal experience.
For Dumaguete’s readers, this is particularly significant. The city has always been a refuge for those who seek quiet contemplation, and Silent Book Club reinforces that legacy. It provides a space where reading is not just a solitary pleasure but a communal one, where book lovers can gather without the need for conversation, simply enjoying the presence of others who share the same love for the written word.
I asked Ina Tizon why she comes every month. “John and I both decided to join Silent Book Club 6200 so we can finally get around to reading our backlog of books,” she says. “Though to be honest, our main purpose was to go out of the house and socialize with our friends and other like-minded individuals. And we got to tick both of those boxes when we attended, we also get to meet new people and have long chats afterwards.”
I asked Pia Villareal the same question. “I joined because it was an excuse to read somewhere silent that wasn’t just the same four walls of my room,” she says. “It’s also easier not to get distracted when there’s outside pressure to keep doing the thing you want to do, which in this case is reading. And lastly, it’s just a really convenient way to be among people who appreciate books and have the decency to stay quiet while you read.”
From Tara de Leon: “I sadly suffer from what is referred to as ‘brain rot.’ It has made reading books difficult but it hasn’t curbed the desire to hoard. When I’m surrounded by people who enjoy what they’re doing, I get caught in the current of their excitement. I joined the Silent Book Club 6200 in the hope that by osmosis, I can rekindle my love for reading—and also tackle my mounting to-read tower!”
From Leah Navarro: “As someone who used to read a lot but now has difficulty doing so, I have hoped joining the Silent Book Club will spark my desire to consume books again. Which, apparently, after many sessions, has immensely helped me read the books I just put on the shelf after buying them. It’s like rekindling an old flame—and for me, having a community that read together for an hour is quite inspiring. I look forward to each month, to seeing new [and old] faces, to talk about their progress on the books that they have chosen to read.”
From Dominique Roleda: “I mainly joined because I needed an excuse to read. I had been in such a huge reading slump for the past two years, where I’d start a new book, then forget about it and then start another. I just could not finish reading a book! And then I’d make excuses that it was because I was busy, and I had other things to do. When I heard that there was a book club though, I figured that I’d give it a shot. Silent Book Club gave me an excuse to actually go out and read, so that was hitting two birds with one stone. I didn’t really think that it would be for me, because I didn’t think reading in silence would be very engaging, but just being around people reading and mirroring them did help me get out of my reading slump. It also feels comforting to silently be a part of a community, even though there isn’t much talking involved, just a shared love of books. I feel like whenever I was part of online book clubs before where there were discussions, it just pressured me into putting up a persona so that I didn’t seem dumb, and I was rushing to read so I had something to talk about—but missing the enjoyment of the book actually sucked, and that got tiring real quickly. Just silently existing in a room to read with other people [who also love reading books as much as I do] is comforting in its own way. And I’d also get some good recommendations for my next read just by looking around! And if I really want to start a conversation, asking about books at the Silent Book Club is pretty much a free ice-breaker.”
I do hope Silent Book Club becomes a firm fixture in Dumaguete’s literary landscape, much like the workshops and readings that have come before it. I love its simplicity. I love that it requires no grand gestures and no elaborate discussions—just a group of people reading together, in silence, finding comfort in the shared stillness of books.
Silent Book Club 6200 [ Instagram: @silentbookclub.6200 ] meets once a month, usually on a Wednesday night, at Libraria Books at 58 EJ Blanco Drive. The event is free and open to the public.
Labels: books, city of literature, dumaguete, literature, silent book club
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Saturday, February 01, 2025
2:23 AM |
I'm Outta Here
Walter Salles’ I’m Still Here [2024], which is up for Best Picture at the Oscars, is basically the Brazilian Dekada ‘70 [2002], with Fernanda Torres taking on the Vilma Santos role. Torres as Eunice Paiva is a stalwart saint from beginning to end, and while the role is acted to brilliant pieces, it doesn’t make for good characterization, or propulsive storytelling because she has no arc. [And what is up with that ending? Sure, that's Fernando Montenegro, whom I love in Central Station, swapping in for the role with her real-life daughter, but what is that ending?] Meanwhile, Santos’ Amanda Bartolome goes from mousy and uncaring-about-current-events housewife and mother to fierce activist in the course of the film, which actually make for good cinema, and a good arc, enriched in a way only the late Lualhati Bautista could conjure a complex female character. I think I like Chito Roño’s film better. And I wish Philippine cinema had a better PR machine even then to get similar acclaim worldwide.
P.S. I think I will stop watching movies for a few days. I’m just annoyed at everything that I see. September 5 and Nickel Boys were immense disappointments, Conclave and A Complete Unknown were nice but underwhelming. I don’t like Emilia Perez, and I found Anora brilliant and funny but ultimately empty and glib without a real awareness of how the real world works. The only Best Picture nominees I really liked are Dune Part 2, The Substance, and Wicked. I also really love A Real Pain, but they didn’t nominate that one for the big prize. And, no, The Brutalist does not exist. [Is it even out?] The only fantastic category at the Oscars this year is Best Animated Feature. Walang patapon: Flow, The Wild Robot, Memoir of a Snail, Wallace and Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl, and Inside Out 2 — and would you believe the last one is the least of them all.
Labels: film
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