Monday, March 30, 2026
9:00 AM |
The Return of Silliman Film Open
It has been more than a half a decade since Silliman University—via the College of Mass Communication and the Culture and Arts Council—was able to hold the Silliman Film Open, the university’s festival of student films that used to be the one date every year, usually around February or March, when budding campus filmmakers tried their hand at cinematic storytelling.
Last March 7, we finally unveiled its latest edition—the fifth under its current name. Although if history has to be told, this endeavor started in 2009 as the 61 Film Festival [because it showcased the final film requirements of the students of Communication 61]; and then briefly, beginning in 2012, as the Dumaguete Shorts Festival, where it became a showcase of short films being created by Dumaguete filmmakers [regardless of whether or not they were Sillimanian]; and finally as the Silliman Film Open [or SFO] in 2015, this one designed to be more insular, screening only the works of currently enrolled students. [By then, other schools, like Foundation University, were already offering their own festivals. We had to change course.]
What happened after its fourth iteration sometime in 2018? There were some unfortunate shenanigans I really cannot be bothered to rehash, but ultimately it was really because of the pandemic, which made organizing it an impossibility. Although, truth to tell, COVID-19 had no power over some of SFO’s alumni, the likes of Andrew Alvarez and Ara Mina Amor and Von Adrian Colina, who went on to make fantastic films on their own while the world stood still in quarantine.
I began missing it though.
I missed it the way one would miss a calling. In 2008, I was invited to the Cinemalaya Film Festival at the Cultural Center of the Philippines to take part in its Film Congress, and I was there to represent Dumaguete filmmaking. At that time, I’ve only had one short film to my name, and when I was asked in my panel what the best practices of Dumaguete filmmaking were, I could only say one sad thing: there was no such thing as Dumaguete filmmaking.
Granted, we have our very own Eddie Romero, a renowned National Artist for Film. Granted, we have some filmmakers from here, such as Ramon del Prado, Jonah Lim, and Seymour Barros Sanchez. And granted, Dumaguete seems to be a favorite place to shoot for commercial films. But in terms of grassroots filmmaking, at that time, there was nothing. Hence, no best practice.
But I told the audience at the CCP that perhaps we could start some change, however small. When I got back to Dumaguete, and then to my film class at the College of Mass Communication, I had one resolve: to jumpstart filmmaking in this city, by hook or by crook. There are no filmmakers willing to make films? We will move heaven and earth then—and by “moving heaven and earth,” I mean requiring my film class to go beyond just writing film criticism of the movies they saw in my class. I quoted the French director Jean Luc Godard, who once said: “The only way to critique a movie is to make a movie.” Make a movie, I told my classes. They were scared out of their wits, and they were understandably reluctant—but they did manage to turn out films, which to me were minor miracles borne out of sweat, liters of Red Bull, endless coffee, endless bickering among the crew, sleepless nights, panic attacks, and even minor emotional breakdowns. Then again, who said filmmaking was easy? You have to be insane to set out to make a movie, I told them—but the dividends are fantastic.
And what are the dividends so far? We are now on the fifth iteration of the SFO, and many of the films we’ve exhibited in previous editions have gone on to be included at Lutas Film Festival, at the Sine Negrense, and at the Cinema Rehiyon—and one film, Razceljan Salvarita’s I Am Patience, was actually nominated for the Gawad Urian for Best Short Film. The future could bright for Dumaguete film if we actually create an ecosystem where film practice could be established. It is still a fledgling thing—but at least it shows some signs of thriving. Here’s to this batch of student filmmakers, and may they go places indeed.
The filmmakers behind Silliman Film Open 5, with jury members Andrew Alvarez, Tara De Leon, and Renz Torres, festival director Ian Rosales Casocot, and College of Mass Communication Dean Irma Faith Pal [fourth from right]
For the fifth edition, which we dubbed our “comeback season,” we screened only seven short films of varying genres, which included Karisa Marie Barote’s 404: Self Not Found [a science fiction take], Olivia Anne Cabral’s Girls Next Door [a romantic comedy], Jurielle Cornelia’s After the Silence [a domestic thriller], Ryan Rikaz Ibrahim’s Second Best [a crime film that turned out to be campy comedy], Samuel Lagulao Jr.’s Run on Empty [an actioner], Jullan Louise Sido’s Ang Dili Kahulat [a comedy], and Zschaielle Ainsh Tiglao’s When the Wind Blows [a melodrama]. All of them are students of Communication 62, a directing course, and Literature 30, a course on film and literature. [Three other filmmakers, unfortunately, were not able to make the deadline for the festival.]
In the end, the jury composed of local filmmakers Andrew Alvarez, Tara De Leon, and Renz Torres, gave generously and selected a wide swath of titles for awards, including Best Poster to After the Silence; Best Original Song to Le John’s “Naiilang” for Ang Dili Kahulat; Best Production Design to Olivia Cabral’s work in Girls Next Door; Best Make-up Design to Ryan Rikaz Ibrahim and Kessiya Silva for Second Best; Best Cinematography to Ben Guarin, Jeff Jamolod, and Roll Borres for Run on Empty; Best Editing to Angelina Rival for Second Best; and Best Screenplay to Samuel Lagulao Jr. for Run on Empty.
The award for Best Supporting Actress went to Franz Tolentino for Second Best. Ryan Rikaz Ibrahim, who directed that film, won Best Supporting Actor for another film, 404: Self Not Found. That film also garnered Best Actor for Vince Gerard Balbuena, while Best Actress went to Kessiya Silva for Second Best. Jurielle Cornelio was named Best Director for After the Silence, and a Jury Award was given to Zschaielle Ainsh Tiglao’s When the Wind Blows. Ryan Rikaz Ibrahim’s Second Best was finally named Best Film. All in all, a happy ending for a film festival no one thought would make a comeback in 2025!
It was a journey—painstaking and demanding—for all of them.
Samuel Lagulao, for example, is a Creative Writing major, and he had no inkling that the semester that just passed would require him to make a short film. “My fourth year as a graduating student was already heavy with thesis work, my mythology class, and other subjects, but this [film class] was the hardest for me,” he wrote. “The whole experience taught me a great deal, not only about writing itself, but also about the publishing and marketing side of it. Making a film forced me into a different kind of education to what you would normally expect from literary and creative writing classes, one that had less to do with words and more to do with logistics and money and weather and scheduling and accepting the limits of what could actually be done… In film work, [I learned that] talent is important but reliability [on my crew] also matters just as much. A project can survive a lot of limitations, but it struggles when people cannot be there.
He continued: “There were moments when I wanted the camera to hide too much, or the edit to fix problems that should have been solved in the actual shoot, with one scene especially that made that clear when I had wanted to make it look as though a conversation was happening naturally, even though it would really be stitched together from separate footage of people performing against empty space. On paper, that seemed possible. In practice, it was not convincing enough … That was one of the hardest lessons the process taught me. Writing can make almost anything happen because the page is obedient. Film is not. Film depends on bodies, places, light, timing, weather, equipment, and the availability of other people. The actors could not always make it. Some shoots had to be rearranged because one person was free and another was not. One day was cancelled because of the weather. The easiest scene [to shoot] turned out to be the one inside a classroom, probably because it was controlled and contained. Everything else felt exposed to interruption.
“… Now that the film is finished, I remember the strain of it but I also see it more clearly for what it was. It was one of the few times in my student life when I had to move beyond writing something good on paper and face the mess of making something real with other people. … It was tense, expensive, and often frustrating but it also taught me what kind of work filmmaking really is. [But] I am grateful that the process was not smooth since it forced me to understand that a film is never built by imagination alone. It is built through people and limits and corrections and persistence.”
A scene from Samuel Lagulao Jr.'s Run on Empty, which won Best Screenplay and Best Cinematography
For Ryan Rikaz Ibrahim, winner of the top award, joining the festival—and making the film—was a humbling experience. “The most difficult stage was getting the screenplay approved,” he admitted. “… My early drafts were met with strong criticism, [and] at one point, the feedback was direct: the story needed to be rewritten or reframed, because it did not make sense. As someone who was confident in my writing, hearing this was difficult. Each revision felt like going back to the beginning, and the process slowly chipped away at my confidence.”
There were other production challenges, like scheduling the shoot with actors, or even finalizing something as primary as having a cinematographer in place. “But slowly, things began to fall into place,” Ryan said, and then a lot of learning had to be done when shooting commenced. “One moment during filming stood out in particular. While shooting the interrogation scene, the entire team began contributing ideas to improve the sequence. The actors, the videographer, and even I, as the director, experimented with different angles, deliveries, and approaches to the scene. What started as a simple shot turned into a collaborative effort, and that moment reminded me that filmmaking is truly a shared creative process.”
But for him, the real turning point came in the post-production phase. “When my editor, Angelina Rival, sent the first draft of the film, I immediately felt something had changed. The scenes were arranged in a way that matched the vision I had imagined from the beginning. Her work with camera angles, pacing, and sound design brought the story to life in ways I could not have achieved alone. At that moment, the film I had struggled with for weeks finally started to feel real.”
When Ryan’s film was announced as the top winner, he was “genuinely stunned.” He said: “In that moment, it became clear that the victory was never mine alone. It belonged to my actors who poured their energy into every scene, to my editor who shaped the film with remarkable creativity, and to my entire team that helped transform a difficult idea into a finished story. [But] looking back, this entire process taught me the value of humility, perseverance, and openness to criticism. There were times when every correction felt discouraging, and every revision felt like starting over. Yet those moments of struggle slowly revealed an important truth: growth often happens in the most uncomfortable situations. More than anything, I learned that filmmaking is not just about having a vision. It is about trusting the people who help bring that vision to life and allowing yourself to grow through the process.”
A scene from Ryan Rikaz Ibrahim's Second Best, which won Best Film
Filmmaking as a metaphor for processing life. I hope that’s one good lesson instilled with fervor in our current crop of campus filmmakers who made Silliman Film Open 5 happen. Congratulations, everyone!
A scene from Jurielle Cornelia's After the Silence, which won Best Director
A scene from Zschaielle Ainsh Tiglao's When the Wind Blows, which won the Jury Award
Labels: art and culture, dumaguete, film, silliman
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Thursday, October 02, 2025
9:00 AM |
Tropical Comforts and Watercolor Serenity
I did not get to see Gretchen Villanueva-Heras’ new solo exhibition, Tropical State of Mind, when it opened at The Gallery by Pinspired at The Henry Resort last August 23—which feels like forever. The show has since been extended to October 14, which speaks volumes about its popularity. Indeed, when I finally made time to see the exhibition for myself, most of the works have been marked “reserved”—the good news of buyers waiting in the wings.
I liked it. I think the show showcases Gretchen’s delicate watercolor works with the unmistakable intimacy of someone who paints not to impress but to remember. [Point of disclosure: Gretchen is a former student.] Also known by her moniker “GretchensWater,” I know her to be a self-taught artist from Bais City whose previous works have seemed to me to be shaped by memory, place, and personal history. In this new collection, she definitely draws inspiration from her coastal hometown and the tropics that surround her. I like, above all their clarity, and simplicity: there is no grandstanding in this show, no forced irony, no attempts at avant-garde shock. Instead, what we have is a clearness of vision steeped in the ordinary, but translated into light, into color, and into tenderness.
In this sense, Gretchen’s work has to be read as something deeply personal. You can also sense in her brushstrokes the shadow of her artist father’s craftsmanship. You can also sense her nostalgia of growing up in a house where hands built things meant to last. You can sense that there is a deep affection for heritage and family woven into her compositions, which is why each painting feels like a page from a watercolor diary. Clearly influenced by her own fascination with the past, Gretchen’s works are not just depictions of flora and provincial landscapes but fragments of storytelling—they are memories folded into botanical patterns and sunlit textures.
There is a quiet lushness in these watercolors, a sense of calm that feels almost radical in an age addicted to speed and spectacle. The series—botanical vignettes, glimpses of familiar roads, curated moments of tropical life—wears its heart on its sleeve. They do not shout. They do not demand. They invite. And in that invitation, they allow us to remember what it means to breathe.
What strikes me first is the brushwork. Watercolor is a famously unforgiving medium; one careless stroke and the whole composition buckles into mud. Yet here we see restraint: the veins of banana leaves rendered with precision, the glisten of palm fronds caught mid-sway, the woven fibers of a solihiya chair articulated with tenderness. The artist gives us details that never overwhelm but always anchor, as if to say: the tropics are not chaos, they are order disguised as abundance.
The subject matter might tempt dismissal by some as “hotel art”—those safe, decorative canvases designed to be pleasant backdrops in lobbies and conference rooms, scrubbed clean of specificity. But to call these works as such would be to misread their intention. What we have here is not mere décor, but comfort art—and there is a difference. Hotel art is soulless, a manufactured neutrality. Comfort art, for me, is art that chooses warmth over confrontation, solace over provocation. It acknowledges the necessity of beauty in a world already heavy with fracture.
Consider the piece with the empty chair nestled among heliconias and monstera. It is not just a chair—it is a longing. Someone has just left, or someone is about to arrive. It suggests presence through absence, memory through arrangement. Or the piece of sugarcane trucks lined up on a highway beneath a row of palms: it’s not just a rural roadscape, but a meditation on rhythm and patience, on the pulse of provincial life. These are images that comfort not because they are shallow, but because they are deeply familiar.
There is also something quietly radical about insisting on tropical beauty as subject matter. For too long, the tropics have been exoticized from the outside, or dismissed from within as mere backdrop. Here, the artist reclaims it as central. The leaves, the plants, the cane fields—they are not supporting cast, but protagonists. In an art world that often insists on rupture and dissonance as markers of seriousness, it is refreshing to see someone insist that serenity is just as valid a pursuit.
And this is where Gretchen’s work finds its place within Dumaguete’s art scene. Dumaguete has long been a haven for artists, writers, and performers, but it often leans toward the cerebral and the literary, where provocation is prized and irony is the order of the day. In the visual arts, too, there has been a surge of experimental and conceptual work—installations, mixed media, even performance-based pieces—that speak to the intellectual ferment of the city. Against that backdrop, Gretchen’s watercolors—like that of her comrade in art, Kat Banay—may seem modest, but their modesty is precisely their power.
Her paintings remind us that Dumaguete’s art scene need not only be about breaking forms or pushing limits; it can also be about grounding ourselves in the pleasures of the familiar. In a city by the sea, lined with acacia trees and shadowed by mountains, Gretchen gives us a mirror of the place we already inhabit but often forget to see. Her art is both a celebration and a preservation of the tropical sensibility that marks life in Negros Oriental.
True, the paintings are not ironic. They are not self-consciously clever. But they are sincere, and that sincerity might be the boldest thing about them. They remind us that sometimes the truest art is not the art that unsettles, but the art that steadies. And in their tropical state of mind, these watercolors give us the most necessary of gifts: a space to sit, to look, and to feel at home.
Labels: art, art and culture, dumaguete, friends, negros, painting
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, September 19, 2025
9:00 PM |
Salome, Agnes, and All the Anguish in the World
Over the past few weekends, those who love the Dumaguete theatre scene—and it has been quite a bountiful season so far—found themselves confronted with drama at its most essential: bare, unflinching, and alive with questions that cut to the bone.” To begin with, Artista Sillimaniana presented two plays over two weekends in succession, dubbed Double Take, with the conceit that their titles were not to be revealed in any of its publicity, inviting their potential audiences to trust the theatre artists with just the promise of great stories performed to their best expressions by some of Dumaguete’s mightiest thespians. I called it “secret theatre,” with the reveal of the titles only happening at the very start of each show. It was experiment, and by the time Double Take took its last bow last September 13, that experiment proved to be a grand success—the audiences growing with each performance, brought on by fantastic word of mouth.
But now that it’s over, we can reveal the titles in this review. First up was M/ark St. G/ermain’s F/reud’s L/ast S/ession, directed by Jaime del Mundo, and featuring Del Mundo himself as the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud opposite Nelsito Gomez as C.S. Lewis, the famous author behind The Chronicles of Narnia and other tomes which have become classics of Christian literature. Both came to Dumaguete from Manila under the modest billing of a live reading. But modest is the last word one would use to describe what unfolded on the Woodward Little Theatre stage in the first weekend of September. What we were given was theatre distilled to its most essential, its most dangerous, and its most rewarding: two actors, two chairs, a script, and the raw electricity of performance.
The absence of theatrical spectacle—no elaborate set, no special lights, almost no blocking—was never a lack. In fact, it heightened the evening I saw the play in, forcing the audience to lean in, to listen, to wrestle with the very same questions the play poses: belief or unbelief, faith or despair, the stubborn human spirit against the inevitability of death. Del Mundo’s Freud was masterful: here was the old man, frail and dying, yet still wielding wit like a scalpel, each phrase honed with the authority of a mind refusing to surrender. Gomez’s Lewis was a supple counterpoint, all luminous conviction and trembling vulnerability, his belief not naïve but hard-won, tender, and full of ache.
What followed was no mere dialogue but a duel, ideas clashing and dancing in equal measure. And yet, in the pauses, in the shared quiet, there bloomed an intimacy that was profoundly moving. In that intimate space, Dumaguete was gifted not spectacle, but essence: words made flesh, thought turned theatre, performance stripped to its soul—and it was glorious.
These are nights in local theatre when we can see that spectacle can be unnecessary, when the simplest act of reading becomes revelation. Such was the case with the second play of Double Take—J/ohn P/ielmeier’s A/gnes of G/od, again directed by Jaime del Mundo, this time orchestrating a trio of actresses who are rightfully considered as among the finest of three generations of Dumaguete theatre—Dessa Quesada-Palm as Dr. M/artha Livingstone, Belen Calingacion as Mother M/iriam Ruth, and Anna del Prado as Sister A/gnes. What unfolded that second weekend of September was theatre in its most concentrated, unflinching form: three women, three chairs, and a story that dared to wound and enlighten at the same time.
The brilliance of the live reading lay in how these actresses localized the story, rendering its conflicts of faith, truth, and madness into something that felt disturbingly intimate for Dumaguete audiences. Dessa’s Livingstone was a force of skepticism wrapped in vulnerability, her lines haunted by betrayals of faith. Belen’s Miriam Ruth was fierce and evasive, her contradictions dangerous in their evasions. And Anna’s Agnes was astonishing—innocence curdled into menace, her fragile voice laced with something monstrous.
The clash of these three women unfolded like a storm, all of them armed with questions about divinity, about sexuality, about truth colliding in a crucible of pain and wonder. The silence of the appreciative audience spoke volumes, broken only by applause in the end rising like benediction. I noticed that among the crowd I saw the evening in were seminarians from nearby St. Joseph, a reminder of how close this story cut to lived lives of faith in our city. They loved the play.
And then, that same second weekend of September, came Salome, this time at the Luce Auditorium.
Oscar Wilde’s curious one-act tragedy, presented by the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council and staged Andrew Alvarez in Benjie Kitay’s brilliant Bisaya translation, plunged us into blood and desire with startling intimacy. Performed in the round, the audience encircling the stage like conspirators, this Salome found its full flowering in the precise lighting design by Keith Delgado, in the sensual choreography by Fionabelle Marie Cabe, in the hypnotic music by Jules Steven Josol, in the delightfully decadent costuming by Josip Tumapa, and in the minimalist set design by Eazel Savellino. I mention these members of the creative team, because their contributions truly heightened a masterful rendering of the play—an astonishing feat by first-time director Alvarez.
What unfolded for us on the Luce stage was as inevitable as it was shocking, the fantastic unfolding really the result of beautiful performances. Jade Mary Cornelia embodied Salome with revelatory nuance—playful innocence transforming into terrifying obsession. In the way she lilts her voice, we get childish, almost innocent, petulance curdling into corrupted desire for Jokanaan [John the Baptist], the prophet who spurns her, and who pushes her to make her fateful demand for his head in exchange for her dance for King Herod. Surrounding Cornelia’s tour de force performance are three veteran Dumaguete stage actors—Hope Tinambacan, Onna Rhea Quizo, and Benjie Kitay [all senior mentors from Youth Advocates Through Theatre Arts]—who gave the staging a much-needed gravitas: Hope’s Jokanaan was a force thundering with sanctity; Onna’s Herodias was deliciously imperious, commanding disdain in every gesture, in every line reading; and Benjie’s Herod was a different marvel altogether—witty, clownish, sinister, fully inhabiting Wilde’s paradox of depravity laced with comedy. [He also got the best lines, perhaps owing to the fact that the entire play is his fantastic translation effort.] On the other hand, Fort Narciso’s Naraboth, a new face in Dumaguete theatre, lent a handsome and tragic yearning in the play, which completed the fin de siecle tableau.
For me, what makes this Salome astonishing is its “completeness,” embodied by the efforts of the cast and the creative team, the daring use of the arena stage, and the pulse of Wilde’s words rendered in our own tongue. It’s just a different beast, seeing this play rendered in beautiful Binisaya. [Gorgeous lines like, “Gigutom ko sa imong katahum; nangala ko sa imong lawas; og bisan ang bino ug mga mansanas, dili makapawala sa akong tinguha,” sent shivers down my spine.] It feels like a perfect production—confident, sensual, unsettling, and absolutely alive. Wilde’s play, Alvarez tells us in his director’s notes, is about victims of circumstance making choices that define their becoming. I get that. Also, on the Dumaguete stage, Salome becomes more than revival of a classic play: it is revelation of current tribulations, a mirror of modern obsession and its terrible costs.
Taken together, these three plays—F/reud’s Last Session, A/gnes of God, and Salome—for me formed a triptych of anguish and faith that Dumaguete audiences were so very privileged to witness. Each play in its own way wrestled with belief and despair: men circling questions of mortality with reasoned eloquence, women clawing through madness and doctrine toward fragile truths, and a young princess spiraling from innocence into monstrous obsession.
They were plays that confronted the fragility of conviction, the dangers of desire, and the necessity of doubt. Staged with minimal spectacle or with ritualistic grandeur, they shared one thing: an unrelenting interrogation of what it means to be human, to believe, and to suffer. Theatre in Dumaguete, in these productions, became a crucible, where anguish was not hidden but laid bare, and where faith, whether affirmed, denied, or corrupted, became the trembling heart of drama itself.
Labels: art and culture, city of literature, dumaguete, theater
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Tuesday, August 12, 2025
10:08 PM |
Strings at Ritual
You could say it was a Dumaguete kind of evening. Very D.I.Y. Very chill. So cultural. Inside Ritual—the zero-waste grocery store at the Arts and Design Collective Dumaguete along E.J. Blanco Drive, which now apparently moonlights as a performance space—monobloc chairs were being unstacked and arranged not by some invisible stage crew, but by the musicians about to do mini-concert. There was something disarming about seeing Reginald Bernaldez and Gonzalo Misa setting down chairs like they’re also in charge of the barangay fiesta seating plan. It was like catching superheroes folding laundry before saving the day.
The intimacy was immediate, the space itself smelling faintly of laurel, cinnamon, lye, baking soda, and laundry soap. This wasn’t a concert hall; it was a living room with a conscience, and last August 9, it belongs to five of Dumaguete’s best musicians.
The night began with François Champion’s “Gavotte” and Joseph Kuffner’s “Andantino,” a duet between Venus Seno-Bernaldez on the flute and Reggie Bernaldez on the guitar. The pairing was like wind over water: the flute’s clear silver thread sailing over the calm ripples of the guitar—which Reggie later acknowledged: “The flute really overpowers the guitar. Which is why I am in tandem with my wife, Venus,” he joked to the appreciative crowd. I really don’t know much about classical guitar beyond the occasional recitals I attend, but I can tell when musicians are listening to each other to create a good duet. In “Andantino,” Venus leaned ever so slightly toward Reggie in the softer passages, and his playing seemed to rise under hers. I know these two from my college days, and it was fantastic to see them play together again.
Then Reggie himself took to the stage alone for Francisco Tárrega’s “Capricho Árabe”—a piece whose title promised Moorish longing and delivered exactly that. The opening was a delicate question, like a traveler at the edge of a strange city; halfway through, the melody blossoms into something almost defiant. By the time Reggie closed with Miguel Llobet’s “Cançó del Lladre,” I was convinced the titular thief was also a romantic one, stealing my heart in that small room at Ritual.
Rav Rocamora soon stepped in next with Ariel Ramírez’s “Balada Para Martín Fierro.” Kuya Rav has always struck me as a gentle presence—maybe from those childhood days I’ve known of him as a fellow churchmate and elder at Calvary Chapel—but his guitar here was a storyteller’s grit. The piece unspooled like an epic poem, tender in one phrase and stormy in the next. With Dilermando Reis’ “Eterna Saudade,” he offered a quieter ache, a saudade so precise it felt like the memory of a special late afternoon.
Arnold Franke followed with Abel Carlevaro’s “Preludios Americanos,” and here the music felt almost painterly—expressionistic and experimental. There was something in Arnold’s posture—shoulders relaxed, gaze steady—that made the complexity of his playing look deceptively easy. I would later learn he studied music in Tilburg, Netherlands, but in that moment of his playing, he was the embodiment of the naturalness of his sound.
And then there was Gonzalo Misa, who stormed in with Nikita Koshkin’s “Usher Waltz,” a piece as dramatic as its literary inspiration—Edgar Alan Poe’s iconic story. It was gothic and playful, moody and whimsical, and Gonzalo leaned into every shift in tempo like an actor changing masks mid-scene. Watching his fingers was dizzying; they darted, paused, and darted again like they were in on some private world.
For the finale, Gonzalo and Arnold paired up for Christian Gottlieb Scheidler’s “Sonata in D Major.” They wielded two antique guitars, and with these had a conversation that was sometimes harmonious, sometimes argumentative, and always fascinating. The first movement felt like two old friends recalling an adventure; the second was like those same friends, years later, laughing at how serious they used to be.
When the last chord faded, there was roaring applause from the small audience who gathered at Ritual—a warm, sustained clapping, the kind that said: “We know you. We see you. Thank you for making this city more beautiful tonight.”
Outside Ritual that Saturday night, the air was cool. I think of how, in this small city by the sea, music doesn’t always need a proscenium or velvet seats for magic to happen. Sometimes it only needs five friends, a grocery that believes in zero waste, and a few rented monobloc chairs back. And for all my confessed ignorance about classical guitar technique, I left certain of one thing: when Dumaguete’s finest play, the music is never just notes. It is the whole city, plucked and strummed into being.
Labels: art and culture, dumaguete, music
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, August 08, 2025
9:52 PM |
The Pianist as Pinoy
There is a word in music that feels like an apt description for the way pianist Horacio Nuguid plays: “cantabile”—which means the smooth quality of making the instrument sing. This was the thought that stayed with me through Sound Scapes, his piano recital of rare and resplendent works from the Filipino classical repertoire, which unfolded simply and beautifully on the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium stage last 6 August 2025—a respite we didn’t think we needed in the middle of the week. In an age where music-making often feels like a gladiatorial sport—faster, louder, more technically dazzling—Nuguid sat before the instrument with the calm assurance of someone who had nothing to prove. And in that unhurried humility, there was magic.
Nuguid is no stranger to the world’s stages. Trained at the University of Santo Tomas, he would later take his craft to the University of Northern Iowa and to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His career has taken him from solo recitals to orchestral collaborations in the Philippines, Mexico, and the United States, and into close musical partnerships with distinguished singers and instrumentalists.
As artistic director of the Rochester Chamber Music Society, he has carved out a space for music-making that is both intimate and expansive. Honors have followed—among them the Ardee Award for outstanding artist in Rochester—and so has a commitment to teaching: master classes across continents, decades of shaping young pianists at the Young Artist World Piano Festival in Minnesota, and mentorship at the Philippine High School for the Arts. Recently, he has taken on the role of co-artistic director at the Bethel University Summer Piano Academy, continuing the work of nurturing the next generation, even as he brings the voices of our past composers back into the light.
It is with that pedigree that Nuguid makes his debut in Dumaguete, on the Luce stage. The program of Sound Scapes was itself an act of reclamation, designed that way by the pianist. According to him, in the Philippines, so much of our music’s history lies in dust and disappearance—scores lost to war, to neglect, to the indifference of cultural gatekeepers. Nuguid has made it his mission to retrieve these works from obscurity, curating and publishing an anthology—Philippine Piano Pieces (2023)—that has suddenly opened a long-closed window into our pianistic past. Sound Scapes at the Luce was the living and breathing embodiment of that project: nine pieces by nine Filipino composers, spanning decades, styles, and sensibilities, each given a voice on this night in Dumaguete. He proceeded through the program like a lecturer, introducing the importance of each piece at the podium, and then sitting down before the grand piano to demonstrate the wonderfully musicality he had just described.
From the very first notes of “Caricias (Danza)” by Juan de Saliagun Hernandez (1881–1945), who was known as a composer of dances, marches, and music for theatrical performances, it was clear that Nuguid was not merely reproducing what was on the score. His left hand, rich with warm bass resonance, grounded the dance’s rhythm; his right hand let the melody float in the air with limpid clarity. The contrast was a quiet marvel—you could almost “see” the separation of musical notes, and yet they conversed so naturally.
“Poeme” by Carmencita Arambulo (1938–2023) was another personal highlight for me. The 1957 piece is, like what it subtitle claims, “a song without words,” which Nuguid rendered with a tenderness that felt almost private, like overhearing someone’s cherished memory. He let the melody breathe, resisting the temptation to rush. At his age—seasoned, yes, with perhaps the occasional elasticity in tempo—there was no need for metronomic precision. Instead, there was the deeper rhythm of someone shaping a phrase to match the heartbeat of this beautiful song.
“Okaka (Theme and Variations)” by Rodolfo Cornejo (1909–1991) was the program’s playful centerpiece, an intricate work that tested the pianist’s dexterity and interpretive range. Nuguid navigated its shifting moods with ease, from the almost childlike charm of the theme to the more dramatic, harmonically adventurous variations. And then there was “Bontok Ili” by Rosendo Santos Jr. (1922–1994), a piece steeped in indigenous echoes, where Nuguid’s left-hand ostinatos—a continually repeated musical phrase or rhythm—pulsed like ritual drumbeats while the right hand spun modal melodies like threads of smoke.
One of the evening’s most quietly moving moments, at least for me, was “Meditacion (Nocturno)” by Filemon Sotto (1872–1966). Here, Nuguid leaned into the music’s meditative intent, letting each chord shimmer and fade, as if allowing the audience to listen not only to the sound but also to the silence that followed. In contrast, “Tarantelle No. 2” by Lucino Sacramento (1908–1984), which the composer wrote for a NAMCYA competition in 1978, burst forth with kinetic energy—and though Nuguid’s tempo was, by necessity, tempered, the rhythmic drive and the joy in the playing were intact.
When Nuguid arrived at “Kundiman” by Felipe Padilla de Leon (1912–1992), the recital shifted into something unmistakably Filipino. The bittersweet lyricism, the gentle swells of emotion… Nuguid played it as though telling a love story across generations. Nuguid’s rendition of “Malikmata” by Antonio Molina (1894–1980) shimmered with impressionistic colors, like a heavy dream one tries to recall in the morning light, unsettling but also bemusing. And finally, “Mayon (Fantasia de Concierto)” by Francisco Buencamino Sr. (1883–1952) closed the concert with a sense of Pinoy grandeur, its elevated folksiness made beautiful with Nuguid weaving together the virtuosity and lyricism that mark the best of our piano literature.
What struck me most, across all these works, was the utter lack of pretension in Nuguid’s playing. Nuguid did not play to impress. He played because this music deserved to be heard again. He played because these scores—many of them once teetering on the edge of oblivion—still had beauty to give. He played because, quite simply, he loved them. And we, listening, were made to love them too.
There were no flamboyant gestures, no exaggerated rubatos meant to elicit gasps. Even the occasional unevenness in tempo seemed part of the music’s lived-in honesty. In an era obsessed with perfection, this was a concert that embraced humanity—its frailty, yes, but also its capacity for grace.
By the final applause—and I was really surprised by the gusto of the audience after many years of watching piano recitals eliciting only tepid responses—I realized what Sound Scapes truly was: not just a recital, but an act of cultural memory. Nuguid had taken us on a journey through our own musical heritage, dusting off forgotten pages and giving them breath again. And as we filed out of the Luce, it felt less like leaving a performance and more like emerging from a long, nourishing conversation, one where every melody had been clear, every note had mattered, and the silences between them had spoken volumes.
Truth to tell, I was not really aware of Philippine piano music much until last Wednesday night. What the concert taught me is that it is a most curious and beautiful thing, a garden of melodies where Spanish-European grace, American verve, and the deep earthiness of our own indigenous rhythms mingle in unexpected bloom. (Forgive the flowery metaphor!) But apparently, like many gardens in our history, much of it has been left untended, its flowers hidden from view. The tragedy is partly logistical: pianists have simply not had access to the printed scores. The few that made it into print—often through the composer’s own efforts—have long since slipped out of circulation, their surviving copies asleep in library archives, or kept as delicate heirlooms, or ravaged by World War II, a fraught period when untold manuscripts and printed scores vanished in the fire and rubble.
But Nuguid’s work tells us that this story does not end in loss. In recent years, there has been a gathering tide of interest in finding these scattered notes, in piecing together a legacy nearly lost. And in August 2023, Nuguid stepped into this story with something remarkable: a published anthology of twenty-five piano pieces by sixteen Filipino composers, each work lovingly rescued, critically edited, and annotated for a new generation. The book and the concert are both an act of scholarship and an act of devotion.
You can listen to most of these piece in Horacio Nuguid’s YouTube channel. The concert was sponsored by the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council. Thanks to Dr. Elizabeth Susan Vista-Suarez for explaining the technicalities of the piano-playing for me.
Labels: art and culture, classical music, dumaguete, luce, music, philippine culture, pianists, silliman
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Friday, August 01, 2025
10:00 PM |
Swans Descending in Dumaguete
My former journalism mentor in high school—she’s the current Dean of the College of Education at Silliman University—was effusive upon seeing Ballet Manila’s production of Swan Lake last week, on its final night at the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium: “I was in tears when I left the Luce tonight, overwhelmed by a mix of emotions,” Dr. Gina Fontejon-Bonior wrote on Facebook. “I needed this moment at the Luce, immersed in an evening of love, beauty, and grace—after a long workweek, and a heartbreaking news about the health condition of someone I deeply care about. Salamat kaayo, Silliman University Culture and Arts Council, for bringing the artistic creation of Lisa Macuja-Elizalde back to Dumaguete, … for the breath of hope and grace.”
That kind of testimony lingers more than most, I think. More than actual reviews even—which is why I have opted to center this column with Dr. Bonior’s emotive impressions of the ballet. And how do I even begin to review Ballet Manila’s Swan Lake, with Ms. Macuja-Elizalde in her creative peak? I won’t even try. I will try to write about it in a different way.
You hold on to testaments like Dr. Bonior’s it like a talisman, something to pull out when the world begins to unravel. Because the truth is, we’re all slowly unraveling. And if the ache of ordinary life, like illness or bureaucracy or the grief that never leaves you, does not do you in, it’s the quiet despair that comes from scrolling endlessly through your phone in the dead of night, seeking feeling in a world too numbed out to offer it. And then a white bird flies across a hallowed stage in Dumaguete, pirouettes in anguish, and suddenly your chest opens.
What is it about Swan Lake?
It’s a ballet that, by all measures, should be a relic: composed in 1875 by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, borne out of the romanticism of a bygone era, stuffed with royal courts and enchanted lakes and girls turning into swans. But it survives, not just in gilded theaters in Moscow or London, but here in Dumaguete—under the shadow of acacia trees, where the salt of Bohol Sea clings to your skin even in the air-conditioned dark of the Luce.
It survives, I think, because it haunts us.
Because it is, at its core, a tragedy of transformation, of doomed love, of becoming something else entirely just to survive. And isn’t that what we all do? The ballerina, at the height of her dance, becomes the swan—and you forget that it is human limbs that tremble and leap and flutter. You see the feather, the wing, the pain of flight.
Lisa Macuja-Elizalde and Ballet Manila know this, embody this. And in Dumaguete, that knowledge is received not passively, but with deep and trembling gratitude. Here, I would like to believe that we are not jaded by art. Here, when a ballerina flutters to her death in a fog of heartbreak, someone in the back row weeps silently—and means it. [This is very true! In the performance that I saw, the audience I was with were rapturous when our swan leapt to its romantic demise!] Maybe that’s why Dumaguete is still the kind of city where a ballet like Swan Lake matters. Because we haven’t lost our capacity to believe in beauty. Or to mourn it.
As a teenage high schooler working for The Junior Sillimanian, I was taught by Dr. Bonior [always Ma’am Gina to me] to be precise in my reporting, to sum up a story best in a perfect opening paragraph. She taught me to feel with structured language. And now here she is, decades later, watching a girl in a tutu die for love and magic, and sobbing in the darkness. I think there’s poetry in that.
There’s a kind of redemption in being allowed to feel deeply. It doesn’t happen enough.
Maybe that’s what Swan Lake offers: not just its well-worn story of Prince Siegfried and the cursed Odette and her dark double Odile and the malevolent Von Rothbart, but the whole aching ritual of it. The careful discipline of classical ballet, with its merciless demands on the human body [Ballet Manila, for Dumaguete, did the unthinkable and danced a punishing total of six shows in a row in four days!], and its impossible grace. Every movement honed through pain. Every step a sacrifice. And yet, it is through that rigor a transcendence arrives.
Lisa Macuja-Elizalde, who once danced these roles herself, has now given her dancers the gift of that same transcendence that we, in Dumaguete, got to witness, which is nothing short of a blessing. A miracle, even. Because we are far from the cultural centers of the country. We do not have the reach of Manila, or the glitter of CCP galas. But we have the Luce. We have the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council and its indefatigable leader, Diomar Abrio, with his stubborn devotion to the idea that Silliman University and Dumaguete deserve to see the best this country has to offer. That we are not too small. That art is not a luxury—it is the lifeline.
And so this is why Swan Lake endures, at least for us. Not because of nostalgia, but because of its ability to speak to us across centuries and geographies, across languages and generations. It tells us that love can redeem, even if too late. That betrayal can destroy, but also set one free. That sometimes, becoming a swan is the only way to escape.
And here, in this seaside university town where students still write poetry on napkins in cafés, where strangers say thank you after watching a play, where grief is softened by music echoing from the Rizal Boulevard, Swan Lake finds an audience that doesn’t just watch—but listens. Feels. Believes.
So yes, bring back Odette to our stage. Let her dance again and again in our city. Let her leap and fall, rise and vanish. We will always watch. We will always weep. And somewhere in that act, in that collective surrender to beauty, we are healed. Even if just for one night. Because in Dumaguete, Swan Lake doesn’t end with a curtain call. It stays.
Labels: art and culture, ballet, cultural affairs committee, dance, dumaguete, luce, silliman
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Sunday, July 27, 2025
9:00 AM |
In Defense of Fictional Mess
Some time ago, it was Rory Gilmore. For the past three years or so, it has been Carrie Bradshaw. The cycle goes on, and there are fresh targets now and then being pilloried in the dark recessed of TikTok, X, and YouTube: Meredith Grey, or Olivia Pope, or—let’s be honest—any woman in fiction who dared to be messy, to be layered, to be human.
I think we have reached the era of the Digital Inquisition, where every fictional woman is put on trial, their sins collected like receipts and tallied on social media, their worthiness as characters weighed against an impossible moral scale.
Exhibit A: Rory slept with a married man.
Exhibit B: Carrie was selfish and inconsiderate to her friends.
And on and on.
The tone is always gleeful, smug, as though someone has finally solved the puzzle of why this character is problematic—and therefore must be thrown into the pit.
What is this need to reduce women characters to lists of their failures, stripped of context and complexity? It’s like watching someone read Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and saying, “Well, she shouldn’t have had an affair then.” You’d be laughed out of any serious literature class. And yet this same behavior is considered incisive cultural criticism on the internet.
I’ve seen this happen over and over again, and it feels eerily familiar. It’s not that different from the small-town tsismis we all know: the kind of gossip that isn’t content with shades of grey but demands black and white, saints and sinners. That neighbor who used to be so polite? Oh, didn’t you hear? She once left her child alone in the car for five minutes to run into Mercury Drug. Terrible mother. Cancelled. This is the same energy, just with a glossier filter and a wider audience.
I often wonder what we want when we consume fiction these days. We say we want complex characters—flawed, human, real—but the moment they exhibit the very messiness that makes them interesting, we slap a label on them and throw them away.
“Toxic.”
“Narcissist.”
“Red flag.”
Words that once had precise meanings now just serve as aesthetic judgments in character assassination posts.
And I can’t help but notice that this happens disproportionately to women characters. When Walter White spirals into murder and meth and monstrosity, we call him a tragic antihero. When Don Draper sleeps his way through Manhattan with the emotional intelligence of a bar of soap, we study him. We analyze. We marvel at the storytelling. But when Carrie Bradshaw does something dumb—like, say, leave Aidan for Mr. Big—we call her irredeemable. Not misguided. Not emotionally stunted. Just irredeemable.
What is that if not misogyny dressed up as media literacy?
There’s an emptiness in this impulse. A refusal to sit with discomfort. Maybe we’re so used to curating perfection online—every tweet polished, every selfie filtered—that we can no longer tolerate messiness in others, even fictional ones. It’s a kind of hyper-morality that isn’t interested in redemption, or growth, or contradiction. It just wants to assign blame and move on. Like a moral accountant tallying sins in a spreadsheet.
But where’s the pleasure in perfection?
Honestly, what is the point of watching a character who does everything right? Who never slips up, never makes a bad decision, never says something selfish, never hurts someone by accident or on purpose? That’s not a character. That’s a cardboard cutout in a Sunday School pamphlet.
Real stories live in the mess. In the contradictions. In the quiet failures and loud mistakes. In the long arc of someone who doesn’t get it right the first time, or even the fifth. This is where we see ourselves. Because let’s be honest: no one on this planet fits the checklist of moral purity. You? Me? That girl from Gen Z with the infographic on “Why Rory Gilmore is Actually a Monster”? None of us. And yet we demand from our fiction what we cannot live up to in our own lives.
I think often about what it means to be a reader, a viewer, an audience in this moment. And maybe it means learning to sit with the uncomfortable. To look at Carrie Bradshaw and say, “God, she’s insufferable,” but also, “Wow, she’s real.” To recognize in Rory Gilmore the fragile dreams of girlhood curdling into something selfish and still feel a pang of heartbreak, not righteousness.
Stories are meant to disturb us sometimes. Characters are meant to disappoint us. That’s the contract. That’s what makes them stay with us long after the screen fades to black or the book closes.
So no, I will not hate these characters because a Twitter thread told me to. I will not participate in this flattening of fiction into a moral binary where we root for saints and burn the rest. I will, instead, keep loving the difficult women [and men] of the screen and page, because they are reflections of our most human selves.
And if that makes me a bad feminist, then so be it. At least I still know how to read.
Labels: art and culture, culture, fiction, life
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Monday, July 07, 2025
2:34 PM |
Paul Palmore Returns!
CATCH THIS ONE OF A KIND THEATRE EVENT ON WEDNESDAY! In his first work as a come-backing theatre artist, Paul Palmore directs and presents a collaborative work with Dessa Quesada-Palm, Alex Cerra, Mayumi Maghuyop, Iniaki Montenegro, and Fionabelle Marie Cabe doing excerpts from James McLure's Laundry Room and Bourbon and Michael Cristofer's The Shadow Box, the JULY 9, Wednesday at 7 PM at the Woodward Little Theatre, Silliman University, Dumaguete City! FREE ADMISSION [but donations will be appreciated].
Labels: art and culture, dumaguete, silliman, theatre
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Sunday, June 29, 2025
9:18 AM |
A Life of Culture
This is an expanded version of my acknowledgment speech at the Outstanding Dumagueteño Awards, given last June 28 at Brooke’s Place in Batinguel, Dumaguete.
To be invited to speak on behalf of the honorees in the Artists and Entertainers category of the Outstanding Dumagueteño Awards feels like standing at the threshold of history and memory. And it feels both so fitting and intimidating, perhaps simply because I know these people throughout my whole career as a cultural worker and have championed many of their works. These are people I have worked with, admired, written about, or simply held in reverence.
The theatre artist Evelyn Rose Aldecoa, who directed me in three unforgettable plays, taught me the rhythms of performance and community.
The poet Merlie Alunan is one of my literary mentors, and continues to guide me in collecting the folk literature of our province, helping us hold onto the fragile strands of our cultural memory.
When I found the films of screenwriter and film director Cesar Jalandoni Amigo, who died in 1987, I tried to give them light again in articles I have written about him and in screenings I try to do of his films, knowing that every frame of his cinema was a testament to his quiet genius.
The visual artist Hersley-Ven Casero is my most frequent collaborator. He has done the illustrations of most of my books, and I actually curated his first solo exhibit more than a decade ago. I am always drawn to the artistry he creates with his lens, which has chronicled the beauty and everyday wonders of our city, and I see as an artist who sees the world in textures we often miss.
I spent some time with the filmmaker Eddie Romero before he died in 2013. His stories for me moved beyond the screen into the national consciousness, and one of the highlights of my cultural work last year was curating the exhibit dedicated to his life and works at the National Museum of the Philippines in Dumaguete.
Edith Lopez Tiempo—Mom Edith—whose wisdom and grace launched countless literary careers, including my own, is the light we continue to follow.
I do not know Boboy Garovillo personally—but I feel like I do, given that almost all of us here have grown up with the songs of APO Hiking Society, their music inscribed in our hearts and has become our very definition of the best of OPM. That I have been chosen to be in their ranks humbles me, because I am first and foremost a rabid admirer of their creative life and a champion of their works.
You will notice that among all the categories in the current iteration of the Outstanding Dumagueteño Awards, our category has the biggest number of honorees. This underlines what for me is the biggest and often unacknowledged truth about Dumaguete: that it is in fact a city of the arts and culture—and every means should be done by our LGU to highlight that truth, through education, through tourism, through policy. In the first iteration of this award, in 1998, only one artist was actually honored: Canuto Villariza, a musician and songwriter who brought us “Dumaguete [Do You Hear Me Calling?” Today, more than 25 years later, Dumaguete has honored eight individuals—and among us we have two National Artists in fact! We need to embrace this, and nurture a city that is friendly to its artists.
I do hope that the Outstanding Dumagueteño Awards will become an annual honor, because we have so many artists and cultural workers who deserve this distinction. Francisco Sevilla Banogon, Rene Armogenia, and Dean Sinco for architecture and interior design. Cornelito Aro, Kitty Taniguchi, Jose Laspiñas, Paul Pfeiffer, Maria Taniguchi, and Muffet Dolar Villegas for visual arts. Luis Sinco for photography. Artemio Tadena, Cesar Ruiz Aquino, Myrna Peña-Reyes, Edilberto Tiempo, Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas, Bobby Flores Villasis, Elsa Martinez Coscolluela, Lakambini Sitoy, and Eva Rose Washburn-Repollo for literature. Priscilla Magdamo-Abraham, Elizabeth Susan Vista-Suarez Emmanuel B. Gregorio, Jay Cyrus Villanueva, and Enchi for music. Junix Inocian and Andy Bais for theatre. Lucy Jumawan-Sauer for dance. Dennis Trillo and Glydel Mercado for film. Tingting Delfin, Isabel “Boom” Roxas, Jeanne Ong, Digna Coo, Fred Quimat, Amir Sali, Alexis Monsanto, and Rajo Laurel for fashion design. And these are only just a few that I can remember.
We speak often of progress in terms of roads and buildings and markets. But true progress lies also in the art we create, in the songs we write, in the stories we tell each other when the lights go down and we gather in darkened theaters to remember that we are human. It is in these moments that we learn empathy, find courage, discover ourselves anew. The arts are not a luxury but a lifeline. They keep the soul of a community alive.
I hope this awards tradition continues, and that every year we pause to remember the artists and cultural workers who labor often in silence, sometimes in obscurity, to bring beauty into our lives. Their work is the work of spirit, of heart, of community.
Some might ask: why honor the arts when the world is beset with crisis? Why spend time celebrating when we are surrounded by hardship? The answer is simple. Art is our response to darkness, our stubborn refusal to give in to despair. It reminds us of the beauty still possible. It gives voice to the voiceless, gives shape to the dreams we hold close at night, lets us imagine a better world. And we gather here tonight not just to give medals but to affirm our collective belief that culture matters, that artists matter, that our stories matter.
On behalf of my fellow honorees, thank you for this recognition. We dedicate it back to the community that made us, to Dumaguete whose gentle spirit continues to nurture our own. May we all continue to live a life of culture, because in the end, it is the only life truly worth living.
Archiving a digital copy of the Pasidungog 2025: The 2nd Outstanding Dumagueteño Awards programme:
Labels: art and culture, dumaguete, life
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Monday, May 05, 2025
9:00 AM |
Incendiary Memories and Diasporic Reckonings
Who says that the body of work of Sillimanian writers are devoid of social issues and is centered only on fruitless formalistic pursuits? Consider the latest two plays in the ongoing Teatro Sillimaniana Festival—Elsa Martinez Coscolluela’s Original Grace, and Linda Faigao-Hall’s Lay of the Land. Both plays emerge from different geographies and aesthetic registers, but they converge on the urgent politics of memory, abuse, and displacement that shaped the Filipino experience in the late 1980s.
In revisiting these works in 2025, we encounter not merely theatrical relics of their time but searing reflections that speak with renewed urgency to contemporary audiences. Set in the wake of the Marcos dictatorship and during the volatile aftermath of the People Power Revolution, both plays interrogate personal and political trauma, the price of silence, and the possibilities of healing.
Coscolluela’s Original Grace, directed by Eazel Sevilleno, stages its battle for truth and justice within the cloistered confines of a convent, juxtaposing legal struggle with spiritual sanctuary. Beatriz Vera [Jade Mary J. Cornelia], a corporate lawyer haunted by a troubled past, is pulled into the case of Carmela Santos [Precious Aranas], a teenage rape survivor whose abuser, Leon Garay, is shielded by layers of patriarchal and familial complicity. The play’s domestic horror is disturbingly familiar: Carmela’s mother Dolores [a very moving CJ Cañete] left for work abroad, a tragic echo of the “OFW economy” that escalated during the Marcos years and exploded in the post-EDSA years as the state normalized the export of labor. The play’s setting—a convent—might at first appear to be a retreat from political terrain, but it instead serves as a charged crucible where class, power, religion, and justice collide. Beatriz’s professional façade begins to crumble as Carmela’s story dredges up her own repressed trauma.
In 1988, when the play first emerged, such portrayals of incest, rape, and female complicity were incendiary; women’s rights were still marginalized in public discourse, and speaking openly about abuse was a radical act. Original Grace dared to expose the fissures beneath the idealized image of the Filipino family—especially the fractured families left in the wake of diaspora and dictatorship. In 2025, its relevance endures: child sexual abuse remains a crisis, and the question of how the law and social institutions fail survivors is still pressing. What deepens the play’s significance today is the recognition of how trauma is inherited and how women—across generations—internalize both pain and guilt.
Coscolluela’s choice to embed the legal battle within the nuns’ convent isn’t merely symbolic; it underscores the complicity of religious institutions in both silence and healing. Characters like Mother Alma and Sister Mary and Sister Lily are not caricatures of piety but fully human agents wrestling with their own ethical limitations. There is no easy redemption here. The staging and performances, particularly by Jade Mary Cornelia as Beatriz and Precious Aranas as Carmela, highlight the emotional tectonics of trauma without collapsing into melodrama. What Original Grace offers is not grace as divine absolution, but grace as the painstaking process of facing the past, speaking truth, and reclaiming one’s agency.
In contrast, Lay of the Land, directed by Tess Gal, unfolds not in the Philippine homeland but in the fragmented diaspora of New York’s East Village—a milieu where identity is as much a matter of survival as it is of longing. Perlas [Liezyl Livestre], newly arrived from the Philippines, steps into a shared tenement space infused with both bohemian American decay and the unresolved specters of martial law. Set during the February 1986 People Power Revolution, the play juxtaposes the euphoria of collective political upheaval with the isolation of the immigrant experience. Perlas’s arrival coincides with the nation’s supposed rebirth, yet her personal displacement reveals how liberation at home can coincide with alienation abroad.
Faigao-Hall’s writing navigates this tension with sensitivity and complexity. Her ensemble cast of characters are not mere emblems of multiculturalism, but embodied critiques of power, history, and belonging. Joaquin [Christian Evangelista], a fellow Filipino immigrant and Perlas’ brother, becomes both foil and mirror to Perlas. He has adapted, assimilated, perhaps at the cost of remembering. Helene, Artie, Gustaf, and Kelly represent various facets of American life—idealism, cynicism, exploitation, and artifice—all of which Perlas must contend with in her search for meaning and footing.
Where Original Grace is intensely internal, Lay of the Land is spatial and relational. The physical space of the tenement becomes a metaphor for a dislocated homeland—shared, shifting, contested. The gallery housed within it reflects the tension between representation and erasure: what gets exhibited, what stories are told, and who gets to speak? The play’s engagement with art and memory echoes Faigao-Hall’s broader dramaturgical commitment to rendering myth and magic real. She subtly weaves Filipino folklore and history into the urban grime of Alphabet City, not through overt fantasy but through atmosphere, rhythm, and metaphor.
The decision to set the play during the climax of the Marcos regime’s fall is bold. In 1986, the revolution promised a rupture from tyranny and the reinstallation of democracy. But in Lay of the Land, that rupture is not clean. The overseas Filipino watches from afar, disconnected from the spectacle of history, burdened with familial expectations and survival in a foreign land. For Perlas and many others like her, People Power did not end suffering—it simply shifted its geography. In 2025, with the political resurrection of the Marcoses and the global backlash against democracy, the play now reads like both prophecy and elegy. The “land” in question is not merely the literal Philippines but the moral and political ground we all must navigate.
Both plays, then, do not merely recall the volatile politics of the late 1980s—they reanimate them. Original Grace dramatizes the internal war for justice and healing within a society riddled with patriarchal silence and institutional complicity. Lay of the Land maps the psychic toll of exile, exploring what it means to hold onto identity, memory, and hope when the homeland itself is shifting under your feet. Each play in its own way reflects a fracture in the Filipino soul—between silence and voice, home and exile, past and present.
In 2025, their meanings resonate anew. The Philippines continues to grapple with historical revisionism, with the return of autocratic figures, and with enduring gender-based violence and diaspora trauma. The brave testimony of Carmela in Original Grace reminds us of the urgent need to listen to survivors and challenge structures of abuse. The lost and searching gaze of Perlas in Lay of the Land calls us to rethink what it means to belong in an increasingly fragmented world.
Together, these plays demand not just witness but reckoning. They do not offer easy catharsis but instead insist on confronting the wounds we have inherited and the histories we choose to forget. In staging them now, we are not merely looking back—we are being asked to choose what kind of future we want to write.
Teatro Sillimaniana Festival is ongoing. Michael Aaron Gomez’s Tirador ng Tinago
will premiere on May 3, Saturday, directed by Bret Ybañez. Lastly, Beryl Delicana’s Mango Tree
will premiere on May 7, Wednesday, directed by Jorelyn Garcia.
Labels: art and culture, dumaguete, silliman, theatre
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Monday, April 28, 2025
9:00 AM |
A Love Letter from the Rainbow
What a way to open the first ever Teatro Sillimaniana Festival! In a showcase of award-winning plays by Silliman playwrights, as helmed by the senior directing class of the Speech and Theater Department of Silliman University’s College of Performing and Visual Arts, Francis Esguerra’s production of Jireh Catacutan’s Una’t Huling Gabi Sa Ramona Disco proved a scintillating beginning—equal parts laugh-out-loud comedy and dramatic exploration about identity and acceptance.
The play primarily follows the journey of Dino [Nico Angelo de Guzman Privado] in finding his birth father. One fateful night, Dino finds himself in an intimate encounter with Andy [Sydney L. Tan], and they soon discover that their lives are somehow intertwined. Dino soon reveals his search for his father, which leads him to an old gay bar in Pasay called Ramona Disco, ran by Nanay Che [Jecho Adrian G. Ponce] and Tita Princess [AJ Delostrico]—and where Dino finally learns the truth, and reconciles his search for identity entwined in the lives of the queer folk behind Ramona Disco.
As directed by Esguerra, the play becomes a powerful act of reclamation, reflection, and representation. This production, at its core, is a searing yet tender exploration of queer identity, familial estrangement, and the possibility of finding oneself in the most unexpected places. The play becomes a vivid tapestry of memory, longing, humor, and hope—all possible because of Esguerra’s commanding direction, and the deeply nuanced performances from its cast.
Like how he demonstrated it with his production of Elsa Coscolluela’s Blood Spoor only a few months ago, Esguerra shows us how his directorial hand is both assured and compassionate, weaving together the play’s deeply personal narrative with theatrical precision and soul. What makes his work truly remarkable is how he interprets Catacutan’s text not merely as a script to be staged, but as a lived truth to be felt. In his director’s notes, Esguerra shares how his journey from performer to director prepared him for the daunting task of bringing such an emotionally layered piece to life: “Now, I am given another opportunity to be the head of a production team… It is another chance to put into practice the theories I have studied, and the practical lessons I have experienced.”
This experience shines in the seamless transitions between the play’s heartfelt monologues, uproarious moments of humor, and poignant silences. Esguerra guides the production with a respect for both form and feeling. He allows the narrative’s emotional beats to breathe, while shaping its structure with clarity and elegance. More importantly, Esguerra ensures that the play’s central themes of self-discovery and radical acceptance resonate with power: “Accepting people as they are can also lead us to accept ourselves and eventually revel at who we really are.” Under his direction, the space of Ramona Disco transforms into more than just a setting—it becomes a sanctuary for broken dreams, awkward truths, and found family. It becomes sacred.
In the role of Dino, Privado delivers a performance that is heartbreakingly authentic. As a masculine-presenting queer man grappling with internalized homophobia, Dino’s journey is rife with contradiction, and his aching confusion of someone desperately searching for his origins while fearing what he might find feels true. Privado portrays these layers with meticulous care—his silences are heavy with things unsaid, his bursts of vulnerability arrive like revelations. [His coño English also makes him endearing.] Privado’s performance peaks in the emotionally grueling Act III, an act steeped in spiritual crisis, where he channels a rawness that becomes almost painful to watch—and yet impossible to look away.
Tan’s portrayal of Andy/Andrea is nothing short of magnetic. With a character that shifts between comic confidence and quiet despair, Tan dances between these emotional states with finesse. Andy is bold, flirty, and fiercely proud—but beneath the surface lies someone who is still navigating the oppressive terrain of “Masc4Masc” culture. “He still sees the need to act masculine to be accepted,” Catacutan revealed—and Tan captures this duality with uncanny skill. What makes Tan’s performance stand out is the generosity he brings to the role. He gives space to every emotion—whether it’s the flirtatious banter with Dino, the devastating recount of childhood trauma, or the climactic spiritual reckoning. Tan’s Andy is never a caricature; he is fully human—beautifully flawed, richly layered, and utterly unforgettable.
As Nanay Che, Ponce offers one of the most soul-nourishing performances of the evening. In the tradition of queer storytelling, the “found mother” is a revered archetype—and Ponce embraces this role with grace and gravitas. Nanay Che isn’t just a character; she is the embodiment of acceptance, strength, and quiet resilience. With every scene she’s in, Ponce’s presence commands attention—both with volume and pratfalls, and also with depth. His delivery is sometimes gentle and sometimes boisterous, but always firm, playful but always wise. Ponce embodies the maternal force that many queer youth long for, offering Andy [and later Dino] the safety and affirmation they have been denied elsewhere. Ponce’s performance is a living tribute to the Golden Gays that inspired the play—a celebration of aging queens who never stopped nurturing.
If Nanay Che is the soul of Ramona Disco, then Tita Princess—brought to life by the vibrant AJ Delostrico—is its beating heart. Delostrico delivers a performance that is both intimate and larger-than-life. She is flamboyant and fabulous, but never one-note. Underneath the loud laughter and theatrical flourishes is a trans woman who has endured, and who continues to give despite everything she has lost. Her chemistry with the entire cast is electric, and her scenes with Ponce’s Nanay Che are particularly moving—two queens holding a kingdom together with eyeliner, sass, and unconditional love.
Una’t Huling Gabi sa Ramona Disco is a play that does more than tell a story—it invites its audience to remember, to grieve, to laugh, and to heal. Catacutan wrote it “to speak about the things [he] found odd or problematic in gay culture,” but he also wrote it as a love letter—to queer youth, to found families, to those who are still searching. And under Esguerra’s visionary direction, that love letter is delivered with both fire and finesse. The cast responded with performances that will be remembered for their honesty, vulnerability, and sheer theatrical brilliance.
I like that we are, at curtain fall, left not just with the story of Dino and Andy, but with a renewed sense of empathy and understanding. The play reminds us, as Esguerra so eloquently put it, that “their story is also our story of discovery, acceptance, love and celebration of the life that we are gifted with.” What a beautiful gift this production truly is.
INTERVIEW WITH JIREH CATACUTAN:
How did you come up with the story?
After writing my first one-act play, Pasilong sa Payag, for my Playwriting Workshop class at Silliman, I took in all the criticisms and thought that if I ever have to write another play, it had to be something that was really close to my heart. The play was also the last creative work I wrote before graduating from Silliman, so I wanted it to be special. I was thinking about what I wanted to see. What little queer boy Jireh wanted to see on stage.
For four years, I sort of felt like the token gay kid in class so I decided to lean into it. I am a writer who has the power to tell the experiences of queer men. And in 2023, the story about the Golden Gays was featured in the New York Times and gained traction, I would admit that I wasn’t really aware of their existence, but it inspired me to write about the Filipino queer experience through characters that come from and represent different generations.
What was your intention in writing this play?
In a way, the play was also an avenue for me to speak about the things I found odd, or for the lack of better term, “problematic” in gay culture. Say for example, with Dino, he represents the “masc” presenting queer men who struggles with internalized homophobia. I have encountered gay men who tend to avoid the flamboyant type of gays because they see femininity as “nakakahiya” or a sign of weakness. This is then countered by the character of Andy/Andrea that is open about his sexuality but also struggles with the “Masc4Masc culture” where he still sees the need to act masculine to be accepted or to hook up with other queer men. I also wanted to highlight other themes such as the domestic abuse young gay men go through, spirituality, and even the idea that gay men have to give away something [in this case, Gatorade and monay] just to feel loved.
I also wanted to express the idea of found family through the characters of Nanay Che and Princess who have taken the role of nurturing mothers to young gay kids who are seeking a home where they could freely be themselves.
Growing up, I always saw gay characters portrayed as comedic relief. Pushed aside to be the funny best friend or the person who dies of sickness at the end of the movie. With that in mind, I felt it was time to bring these characters to the forefront and take control of their own narrative.
What was it like to write the play?
It was crazy but at the same time, it was the most fun I had. I think all the scenes just fell into place because it was a story I was determined to tell. When I was a senior, I commuted back and forth so when I’m on the bus, a joke would pop into my head and I would immediately write them down on my phone.
In the first two drafts, the third act didn’t exist at all. [The play has four acts.] Its addition was needed since the last act felt too abrupt—Dino was being forgiven too quickly. Writing the third act was the hardest for me. I vividly remember writing at one in the morning, sobbing as I typed about the spiritual turmoil that bothered Dino and Andy. I think it was because I went through it when I was younger. There was a time where I prayed so hard to the point of crying, begging Him to make me straight. I guess Act 3 was just the part where I sort of inserted my own struggles as a queer man too.
But overall, Una’t Huling Gabi sa Ramona Disco was the story I had the most fun writing. And when it was finally staged, I was just glad that people laughed at the jokes I wrote on the bus. And as the lights dimmed after every act, hearing the audience sniffle and blow their noses meant that they were able to empathize with the characters I’ve written. Hearing the audience laugh and cry was the ultimate pay off, and I just hope that they left the little theatre inspired by the bravery and resilience of Dino, Andy, Tita Princess, and Nanay Che.
Teatro Sillimaniana Festival is ongoing. Elsa Martinez Coscolluela’s Original Grace will premiere on April 26, Saturday, directed by Eazel Sevilleno. Linda Faigao-Hall’s Lay of the Land will premiere on April 30, Wednesday, directed by Tess Gal. Michael Aaron Gomez’s Tirador ng Tinago will premiere on May 3, Saturday, directed by Bret Ybañez. Lastly, Beryl Delicana’s Mango Tree will premiere on May 7, Wednesday, directed by Jorelyn Garcia.
Labels: art and culture, city of literature, dumaguete, silliman, theatre
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Sunday, March 16, 2025
9:00 AM |
A Personal Journey to City of Literature
A pipe dream is comfortable. Indulging in pipe dreams is safe, because there are really no risks involved, only pronouncements.
You can just say, “I’ve always wanted to write a novel”—and some sort of satisfaction gets sated in the recesses of your ambitions, the pronouncement given, and that’s it. But there is no novel.
You can just say, “I’ve always wanted to travel around Europe”—and it will feel as if with these words you’ve done a little bit of “getting up” from your life as armchair traveler. But there is really no travel done.
You can also look at someone else’s painting in a gallery, and say, “I can do better than that.” But you didn’t. There will be no paintings done by you. But the pronouncement is there, hanging in the air—and somehow that is enough.
But it really isn’t.
The best fulfilment of dreams is in the tangible, not in their pronouncements and not in wishful thinking. And there lies the rub: because most of the pursuit of our dreams actually involve risking it all—carving time out of our busy lives to fill out a fragile schedule of creation, despite the demands on our lives from other things we have also made commitments to—like work, like family, like friends; committing to accomplish the dirty work of untangling seemingly insurmountable paper work or bureaucracy, generally sweating out the small stuff; and developing fortitude of spirit, because you will meet constant disappointments, as well as the firewall of unhelpful individuals who do not understand what you want to accomplish. The road to dreams fulfilled is never smooth, never easy.
Pipe dreams, on the other hand, are easy.
One pipe dream I had indulged on for so long was Dumaguete City becoming UNESCO Creative City of Literature. As a writer born and raised in Dumaguete, I know—perhaps in the most personal sense—how this city has carved a place for itself as an unlikely capital of the literary arts in the Philippines, helped for the most part by writers from Silliman University, like the Tiempos, who chose to stay in Dumaguete [despite the tangible promises of more fulfilled careers outside of it] and have made it the home for which they could steward, not just their own literary creations, but also foundational institutions that would turn out to be great contributions to the national literature.
In 2010, I was one of two Philippine delegates [the other one being the SEAWrite awardee and novelist Edgar Calabia Samar] chosen as honorary fellows to the International Writing Program [IWP] in Iowa City, which just became a UNESCO City of Literature in 2008. When I was in Iowa for this very prestigious fellowship—for me perhaps the most fitting “reward” an international writer can have in their writing life—it dawned on me that this distinction was also fitting for Dumaguete. Iowa City is small, like Dumaguete. It only has one major bookstore; same as Dumaguete. It regularly hosts international writers and literary conferences; same as Dumaguete. And it has the same vibes as Dumaguete—replace Iowa’s corn fields with the sea, and you will get Dumaguete, with blonde people. In fact, Dumaguete writer Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas, who is a resident of Iowa City, calls that Midwestern city as her “blonde Dumaguete.”
Iowa City is also a place whose writing culture is driven by the University of Iowa, the biggest university in town—essentially its own Silliman University. [The writer Robin Hemley, who ran the creative nonfiction program at the University of Iowa for many years, is actually married to a Filipina—from Siquijor.] The famous Iowa Writers Workshop—the grandfather of all writing workshops in America—was the model for the Silliman University National Writers Workshop [SUNWW]; in fact, both Edilberto Tiempo and Edith Tiempo were products of the Iowa Writers Workshop—graduating in the 1950s—Edilberto for fiction and Edith for poetry. And when Paul Engle, the longtime director of the Iowa Writers Workshop, visited Dumaguete in the 1960s to be part of the SUNWW, the idea of establishing the International Writing Program came to him—and he, in fact, invited some of the early alumni of SUNWW to be part of the early batches of the IWP’s famous fall residency. All these literary crosscurrents were already in place when I went to Iowa in 2010 to be part of that fall residency—which is probably why I felt so much at home there.
Since I came back from the U.S., I’d been advocating for the idea of Dumaguete as UNESCO City of Literature every chance I got, including at several editions of the 6200 PopUp, sponsored by the Department of Trade and Industry [DTI]—Negros Oriental, as well as in all my lectures about Dumaguete literature in various seminars and fora, including one on the creative economy at Silliman University, sponsored by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts. In 2014, in my capacity as the founding coordinator of the Edilberto and Edith Tiempo Creative Writing Center, I even curated an exhibit at Silliman Library titled Cities of Literature, which traced the link between Dumaguete and Iowa [already mentioned previously], with the blessings of the IWP’s Christopher Merrill.
In 2018, prodded by former Dumaguete City Tourism Officer Jacqueline Veloso-Antonio, I prepared a white paper for Mayor Ipe Remollo to determine whether we should apply for City of Music or City of Literature. [You see, only the LGU can apply for UNESCO Creative City.] Naturally, as a writer, my bias was clear. The pandemic put these plans on hold.
But when I gave a talk about this very same thing at the first edition of Dumaguete LitFest in April 2024, that propelled DTI Negros Oriental to take the first steps and got me involved in the official application to UNESCO, with the blessings of Mayor Remollo. That’s the story.
We submitted our application on the deadline: March 3.
Now that I’m somewhat rested and have gotten my post-application massage [a combo of body and foot], and now that I’m about to eat my first real [and intentional!] meal in days, I think I can pahungaw a bit: truth to tell, this UNESCO application, which lasted from December to March, took such a toll on my mental and physical health, and by February, I actually found myself getting sick a lot. I tried to persevere [I made sure this did not affect my academic and tourism work], but the anxiety was sometimes just too much to bear. There were promises I made I couldn’t quite keep because of sheer exhaustion, although I still intend to fulfill my obligations now that the big dragon has been tamed.
Was it the sheer ambition of the end-goal, the “internationality” of it all? I guess so. I was so exhausted and anxious I couldn’t even entertain some of the minor blowbacks to the effort from people you would think would be the most supportive. [Some people actually think we are applying for grant money? Where will the money go daw? Like, no, that’s not it. We tried to reach out to the most representative stakeholders that we could contact, and explain what this effort all means. In the end, you really cannot control divisiveness, or miscommunication, or benign disinterest. But most people have been so kind and supportive, even with last-minute asks.]
In my darkest moments, I actually felt I was so alone. That’s not true, of course. In the end, it was a coterie of friends and associates who pulled me out of darkness and together we made it to the deadline. If there is one person to thank, it would be DTI’s Anton Gabila, who was the steadfast keeper of our light, the rock to all our efforts, never mind the mixed metaphors. There’s also the indefatigable efforts of City Tourism Officer Katherine Aguilar, who provided the grease to get the LGU involved in the entire process.
Again, I will take the road of gratefulness.
Thank you, my friends. You know who you are. You have been my light in an anxious world. I have always believed in the magic of trying instead of wishful thinking and pipe dreams; this is our attempt to make things tangible. Here’s wishing all of us luck on October.
Presenting the Dumaguete's bid for UNESCO City of Literature to Dumaguete Mayor Ipe Remollo, with [from left] Anton Gabila of DTI, Ian Rosales Casocot of Buglas Writers Guild, and Katherine Aguilar of the Dumaguete City Tourism Office.
Labels: art and culture, city of literature, dumaguete, philippine literature, UNESCO, writers, writing
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
Friday, March 14, 2025
11:00 PM |
The Way of the Wakwak
It is understandable why the color red suffuses much of the atmosphere—and the metaphors—of Pulang Langob, the restaging of the two-act musical play in Binisaya written by Hope Tinambacan and directed by Dessa Quesada-Palm for the 62nd cultural season of the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council. A blood red moon—projected on the Claire Isabel McGill Luce Auditorium stage—is a steady motif in the play’s unfolding, and crimson is the shade with which the play’s lighting design chooses to bathe many of its scenes. Then there’s the title itself, which is “Red Cave” in translation. Red is everywhere.
I get it. Red is such a rich metaphor, since it is on one hand, the color of foreboding and danger—of betrayals, of incursions, and of one specific sense of “blood,” which is deadly. On the other hand, red is also the color of life, of pulsating love, and, once again, of blood, but in another specific sense, which is familial kinship. It doesn’t matter. All of these somehow come into play in this story about a teenager’s quest for identity and purpose, set in a mystical place called Isla Tawak.
The island is populated by various creatures gleaned from Philippine lower mythology, including the kaskas, the sigbin, the kapre, the tikbalang, the duende, the mambabarang, and the manananggal. [Collectively, they are known as “wakwaks.”] It is the setting with which a young man named Lukas [alternately played by Dasig Nalam and Cristopher Anasario, the latter of whom essayed the role on opening night] must come to face his destiny, with a two-fold purpose that begins his journey: first, to escape the clutches of heinous men who apparently want him for a genetic gift he is largely ignorant of; and second, to find his long-lost mother, a denizen of Isla Tawak named Kasing [played by the luminous Anna del Prado], who might be hiding in the island. That purpose, of course, ultimately changes when Lukas comes to know the island and its people—and the dangers they face involving the encroachment of human beings, settlers who hail from another island called Owat. [Hahaha, this is a clever pun. “Owat” means “trickery” in Binisaya, of course—but reverse the word, and the letters say, “tawo,” the word for “human.” Ikaw jud, Hope.]
Lukas arrives in Tawak in the company of his father Jong [played by Mark Peter Lacson], who acts as his guide, and as his conduit to both the island’s native creatures and encroachers—both camps to which Jong, a human, has strong ties with. Upon his arrival and his subsequent meeting with the wakwaks, Lukas spends all of the first act being privy to a series of flashbacks—how the island itself is abundant with natural resources [all of it somehow connected to the santilmo, a rich and mystical source of power hidden and protected in the titular place]; how human beings—led by researchers Jong, Belma, and Magal—came to the island to find a cure for a plague that’s ravaging humanity; how these researchers later on paved the way for other human beings to settle in the island, ultimately convincing some of the wakwak to embrace their ways and values, forsaking their own [Junsly Kitay’s Mamumulong is especially heinous as a Bible-bearing con man]; how Jong and Kasing fell in love—a pairing that eventually came to bear Lukas; and how the suddenly villainous Belma and Magal seek ways to control the island by looking for the Santilmo, which is protected by Kasing, the only one who holds the secret in opening the red cave.
Truth to tell, the story can be a bit convoluted—but it’s somehow easier to understand Pulang Langob as an amalgam of other stories: there’s definitely Avatar and FernGully: The Last Rainforest and Pocahontas in the mix here, with a little bit of The Lion King thrown in, and also a smidgen of Avatar: The Last Airbender, especially in how it ends—but I will not spoil that crucial development in this space. Stories about pillaging colonizers and the native communities they affect are old as history, and there is really no getting away from the usual arcs of this narrative if this is the story that has to be told. They are like the oral epics of pre-history, whose stories sung by succeeding generations of bards are familiar to every listener—but each one appreciated only by one measure: the richness and uniqueness of the telling.
In that regard then, Pulang Langob is a winner in the telling. Ms. Quesada-Palm, the founder of Dumaguete’s foremost community theatre group Youth Advocates Through Theatre Arts [or YATTA], knows why she wants to tell this story: “[The play] explores mythical creatures—often culturally regarded as evil and as troublemakers—and portray them as indigenous guardians of this reservoir of life confronted with difficult choices as they interact with ‘outsiders,’ the humans. They bear local wisdom that has sustained them for generations because of their ethics of care for each other and the natural world. But their values are tested because of contesting ideas, interests, and possibility.” This goes to show the many layers Pulang Langob offers as a story, and it is quite providential that Ms. Quesada-Palm is the one to take the lead in realizing it for the Luce stage. She is very much a sensitive helmer of this story, and she gives it the necessary textures to make the play more meaningful, and impactful in all the necessary places. Judging from the audience reaction on opening night to specific scenes and to specific dialogues, that impact is assured. [She also appears in a brief role at the play’s prologue.]
But singular props—all the flowers in the world!—must be accorded the teller of the tale, both as composer and as librettist. Everyone knows Hope Tinambacan as a musician, him being the lead singer of HOPIA and the founder of the Belltower Project. He is also known for his zany TikToks and social media presence, where he nurtures a persistent—and politically discerning—liberal voice that is, for the most part, unafraid. His work as a literary artist [he writes balak] and as a theatre artist [he is a director and an actor and a playwright and the founder of D’Salag Collective] are not as well known, but this is where I actually find him to be in his most well-rounded artistic mode, where he takes the rhythms of his musicality and the convictions of his social media postings and the expressive forms of his literary leanings, and distills them all in the form of a play. He has done as much for earlier plays he has written, like Wanted: Boarders and Alkansing Alkansiya, but in Pulang Langob he has taken greater artistic risks to tell this story about destiny and purpose and environmentalism and folk mythology and inhumanity and greed.
It took Mr. Tinambacan fifteen years to write this story, which was first drafted under the working title of Isla Tawak. The painstaking writing of it was guided through the years by many mentors, including Neomi Gonzales and Jeff Hernandez in the beginning, and later shaped by extensive workshops at PETA with Vince De Jesus, Upeng Galang Fernandez, the late Jojo Atienza, and Meann Espinosa. It finally made its premiere last year at the Luce, and by popular demand, is now back for a restaging, complete with new songs, all of them arranged by his brother, Juni Jay Tinambacan.
What also makes this production special is the way it connects various theatre artists from across the Visayas and Mindanao, truly making Pulang Langob a veritable Southern Philippine theatrical project. The choreography is by Nikki Cimafranca of Dumaguete; the set design is by Ted Nudgent Tac-an of Ozamiz City, executed by Aziza Daksla; the lighting design is by Anj Enriquez of Iloilo, executed by Keith Marvin Delgado; and the costume design is by Marvin Ablao of Bohol, executed by the cast. The excellence in the various crafts has to be noted, because—the play being the product of community theatre—it is the embodiment of YATTA’s testament: “Community theatre is excellent theatre.”
Still there are things I wish were better in this production: I wish the sound design was better executed—sometimes the mics fail, and the actors’ voices are not loud enough to be served well by the Luce’s otherwise excellent acoustics; I wish the set design—here made very impressive by the central presence of a gigantic balete tree that is also a cave—was movable enough to make way for other visual elements required by specific scenes [like the awkward insertion of a sala scene, when Belma confronts Jong and asks him to take a side]; and I wish there was more economy of characters—Vanessa Santuryo as Cousin Hannah is gone too soon and never returns for the remainder of the play, and I seriously do not get where Mateo comes from, even though he is played by one of my favorite young actors, Sean Montebon. This is nitpicking, however, and does not really distract from the beauty of the play’s unfolding.
One strength that Pulang Langob has is in its ability to evoke emotion. There are moments of laughter, where the audience finds joy in the characters’ playful banter, and moments of palpable tension, where the weight of impending conflict hangs heavy in the air. But perhaps most striking are the moments of collective silence, where the shared experience of the narrative creates a bond between the performers and the audience, a testament to the play’s profound impact.
In the end, I must say that it is the songs that reverberate. The ballads truly break our hearts, from Jong’s plaintive “Liwat Ka sa Imong Mama” from the beginning of the story, to the three duets in the second act: “Ang Kasingkasing Mobalik” with Jong and Kasing, “Nahadlok Ko” with Tang Tasoy and Lukas, and “Sa Damgo Mo” with Kasing and Lukas, which also becomes the play’s musical motif, appearing here and there to underline the emotional gravity of certain scenes.
Then there is the scary undercurrents of Act II’s opening crowd song, “Adlwang Domingo,” which gathers in one space both wakwak and tawo, the latter incisive in their corruption of the former. And finally there is the martial beats of the two villains—Belma and Magal—singing “Bahala Na!,” which is the very embodiment of greed and evil in a song.
In the end, when Lukas realizes what he must do in light of a certain sacrifice, he sings “Lisod Huna-hunaon, Sayon Sabton,” a beautiful song that is both about bewilderment and understanding:
Lisod hunahunaon, apan sayon sabton
Unsa ang buhaton?
Ako bang matuman gibiling katungdanan
Sayon sabton, apan lisod hunahunaon
Unta naa ka sa akong kiliran
Unta naa ka aron ako magiyahan
Lisod hunahaon… apan sayon sabton.
Pulang Langob is the second musical spectacular produced by YATTA, following the success of Scharon Mani, which took Dumaguete by storm in 2016. Both musicals are astounding testaments of YATTA’s growth, with this year being the celebration of the 20th anniversary of its founding. Both are also testaments to Dumaguete’s nascent claim as a City of Stories. The plays say, we are capable of excellent theatre; they say, we have a community of artists whose talents are worldclass; they say, we celebrate this rich tradition of storytelling we have in Dumaguete. Padayon.
The play runs until 16 March 2025. For tickets and more information, go to the Silliman University Culture and Arts Council website.
Labels: art and culture, cultural affairs committee, dumaguete, philippine literature, silliman, theatre, writers
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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