Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
Sometimes the sweetest things do pass. I buried my baby Creamy last week beside his mate, Coffee. (Don't laugh. They were a wonderful pair. And had the cutest litter.) I still can't forget the little fella though, even after seven days. He was the nicest pet I've ever had, absolutely the sweetest. I loved his pink eyes, his pink nose, and the way he would climb all over us in bed while we would watch TV. My ex "adopted" him for me as a consolation gift after our first two hamsters, Sush and Ash, died. He was quite sick the last few weeks, of old age. He could barely walk, or eat, or drink. I haven't seen him since the breakup -- and I think he held on for so long until I could come by and see him. And so with Creamy's death, another chapter has indeed turned. And so the days pass....
9:31 AM |
Auraeus Solito's Boy and Esprit de Corps
So, yeah, there's a proliferation of gay movies out there. (Eh, naman. After years and years of invisibility and caricaturish depictions, such as those sad sacks in Si Malakas, Si Mahinhin, Si Maganda, what did you expect will happen when the digital camera finally democratized cinematic expression? But I'm sounding like an MA thesis here, so stop na.) There's a whole lot to admire from this new wave of gay cinema, such as some films (specific ones in parenthesis) megged by Senedy Que (Dose), Francis X. Pasion (Jay), Adolfo Alix Jr. (Daybreak and the first half of Imoral), Brillante Mendoza (Masahista and parts of that strange anthology Pantasya), Charliebebs Gohetia (The Thank You Girls), and Jay Altarejos (Ang Lihim ni Antonio, except for that unearned ending). (And yes, I do mean it when I include you-know-who in this list. Really now. He's very good naman.) Needless to say, there's a whole other world of gay film trash -- shameless masturbatory fantasies that ... well, are frankly only worth the roll of Kleenex it takes to wipe away the evidence of libog.
This particularly film though, buzz still to come, I really can't wait to see...
Incidentally, another friend -- Claudio Ramos -- just staged Auraeus' old play "Esprit de Corps" in Silliman's Woodward Little Theater just last week. It was an electrifying experience, because the story still has such bite, and particularly so because the leads -- Aiken Quipot and Ramuel Reambonanza -- were brave enough to get, umm, naked -- emotionally -- and go the distance as far they could carry their very difficult roles. (Well, I should even say the torrid distance, hehehe.) I once wanted to direct this play, with my two exes as my actors. That would have been a weird and strangely satisfying experience. I didn't think I was brave enough though.
(Auraeus, I'll send the pictures from the play soon...)
There was a time, not too long ago, when there was a proliferation of this in terms of Facebook profile pictures. (It was quite a bandwagon, too.) But now the Hope Poster design has gone to the dogs and is officially overexposed.
8:01 AM |
Newspapers are Dead. Murdered by the Internet. Long Live Journalism!
As a Mass Communication graduate, I am fairly troubled by the current downturn in the industry when one journalist after another are fast losing their jobs -- even the New York Post's legendary gossip columnist Liz Smith lost hers! -- simply because the Internet is here to stay and nobody buys newspapers and magazines anymore. Will the newspaper industry survive? What happens to my other profession when it has been pronounced officially dead? (Well, dead, obviously.) If it doesn't survive, what replaces the old system? Gawker's Clay Shirky tells us that it pays to take a close look at the 1500s when the printing press revolution shattered an old world, and brought in a form of "chaos," similar to what we have right now. I like this part:
Print media does much of society's heavy journalistic lifting, from flooding the zone -- covering every angle of a huge story -- to the daily grind of attending the City Council meeting, just in case. This coverage creates benefits even for people who aren't newspaper readers, because the work of print journalists is used by everyone from politicians to talk radio hosts to bloggers. The newspaper people often note that newspapers benefit society as a whole. This is true, but irrelevant to the problem at hand; "You're gonna miss us when we're gone!" has never been much of a business model. So who covers all that news if some significant fraction of the currently employed newspaper people lose their jobs?
I don't know. Nobody knows. We're collectively living through 1500, when it's easier to see what's broken than what will replace it. The internet turns 40 this fall. Access by the general public is less than half that age. Web use, as a normal part of life for a majority of the developed world, is less than half that age. We just got here. Even the revolutionaries can't predict what will happen.
And then the money paragraph...
Society doesn't need newspapers. What we need is journalism. For a century, the imperatives to strengthen journalism and to strengthen newspapers have been so tightly wound as to be indistinguishable. That's been a fine accident to have, but when that accident stops, as it is stopping before our eyes, we're going to need lots of other ways to strengthen journalism instead.
11:35 PM |
Live Facebooking BC 25 Requirements Marking, or How Plageralism is Bad for Research
This week, everywhere in the Philippines, teachers will be burning the midnight candle and slurping coffee by the truckload as we prepare for the Apocalypse that is graduation and final exams.
I went from frustration to sadistic enjoyment as I checked my Research Writing students' requirements today. I guess I had to be very philosophical about it, or else lose my sanity. And while I checked their papers and exams this Sunday, I Facebooked what I did and found into a veritable gold mine of what the future looks like:
9:26 am. Ian is off to have Sunday brunch. I just feel like it. :)
11:20 am. Ian said this yesterday after a group of students presented their video report: "I would rather Facebook than watch that video."
12:15 pm. Ian is having hickory rubbed grilled chicken for lunch in Don Atilano, before attacking the pile of student papers to be checked. The lunch softens the deal.
6:02 pm. Ian is going crazy over late BC 25 submissions! Muntik na akong mag-explode.
6:30 pm. Ian is pausing for a bit from checking all these red-marked submissions. For sanity's sake.
7:10 pm. Ian shows an example of a BC 25 exam answer that boggles the mind: Give an example of a topic to avoid. "Topics that shows [sic] immoral acts." AHHHHHHHHHH!
7:56 pm. Ian is wondering: can you teach a research class proper research skills when some of them spell "plagiarism" as "plagorism"? I fear for our future.
8:19 pm. Ian : When do you use direct quotations? "When their are quotation marks." Wehehehehe. I think the only way out of this dilemma is to laugh na lang. Wehehehe.
8:23 pm. Ian : I have to edit that! The answer is actually: "When their are quotation mark." WAHAHAHAHA!
8:29 pm. Ian : What are the possible dangers when paraphrasing is used incorrectly? "One can be in prison for plagiarism." Wehehehe.
8:49 pm. Ian : Here's another one: "plageralism." WTF?
9:24 pm. Ian is shocked: his red pen gave up on him, and will not give out ink anymore. Symbolic ba?
9:46 pm. Ian is finished with BC 25! Yey!
11:00 pm. Ian is home. He's tired, but feels like he has accomplished something, like climbing Everest.
Just got the news from a Jesuit Facebook friend that the great writer and literary critic, Fr. Miguel Bernad -- who once caused a storm of controversy by declaring Philippine literature "perpetually inchoate" -- has died. The Philippines has lost a great mind.
Zarah Gagatiga of School Librarian in Action sent me a blog award known as the Butterfly Award. Now here are, in random order, 25 cool Filipino blogs I know and visit a lot. (The original number was ten, but I'm feeling generous today.)
Some personal criteria came into play, and like Zarah, I kinda chose blogs because of things such as posting activity vs. dormancy; content; relevance; impact made in the blogosphere; and design and navigation. And, for the sake of spreading the good word for not-so-well-known blogs, I have not included some favorite blogging giants such as Notes From the Peanut Gallery, Manila Gay Guy, Manuel L. Quezon III, and {caffeine_sparks}.
This is a meme award and the rules for passing it on are:
1. Put the logo on your blog. 2. Add a link to the person who awarded you. 3. Award up to ten other blogs. 4. Add links to those blogs on yours. 5. Leave a message for your awardees on their blogs.
But because I'm a meme killer, the bloggers noted here really don't have to do anything. But spread the blog love, if you want.
9:01 AM |
Little Boy Productions' Summer Theater Workshops for Kids and Teens
Little Boy Productions brings back its Summer Theater Workshops for Kids and Teens to be held at the Old Campus of Sacred Heart School–Jesuit on Mango Avenue, Cebu City, from April 14 to May 2.
Now on its fourth year, the workshops offer three classes: Theater for Kids (4 to 6 years old), Children’s Musical Theater (7 to 10 years old), and Musical Theater for Teens (11 years old and up.) Participants will be exposed to 15 sessions of theater training, culminating in a Broadway musical showcase to be held at the Cenewof Theater.
Among those that will be teaching in Cebu this summer are Jill Pena, BFA Theater Arts graduate of Ateneo de Manila University and recipient of a Loyola Schools Award for the Arts in 2007. She also recently performed the lead role in Disney’s “Mulan” for Repertory Philippines.
Joining her will be Reb Atadero, another accomplished actor who played Juan in the hit off-Broadway musical “Altar Boyz” also for Repertory Philippines. His first major role in theater was playing Zeke in the Asian premiere of Disney’s “High School Musical” in 2007.
Completing the team is actor-commercial model Acey Aguilar, who has performed for various theater groups at the Cultural Center of the Philippines, De La Salle University’s College of Saint Benilde, and Dulaang Sipat Lawin at the Philippine High School for the Arts in Makiling.
“We are proud and excited to bring experienced teachers and actors from Manila to teach the summer workshops here in Cebu,” says Hendri Go of Little Boy Productions. “They have years of experience acting, directing, choreographing—and teaching others these skills.”
The workshop fee is P4,500, inclusive of miscellaneous and recital fees, souvenir t-shirt, and tickets to the culminating show.
For more information, call 2549320, 2330452 or 0922-820-8298, or visit Little Boy Productions at Exams Advantage, 3rd Floor Manros Plaza, across Fooda, on Mango Avenue.
Sometimes, when I look back at my childhood and note what I could have done differently, I tell myself I could have risen above the sloth of Dumaguete days -- especially during those old Dumaguete days when lazy summers meant really lazy summers -- and join workshops like these. I wonder where it could have taken me, because things like this actually build so much self-confidence for the unformed child -- plus give him an avenue to explore what ounce of creativity he has, something he will definitely need when he grows up and becomes whatever he wants to become.
Now, as an adult, I could only look back and regret some things -- I should have learned the piano, I should have taken tap dancing, I should have been in that poetry workshop, I should have taken my swimming classes seriously -- which are things I never really wanted to do as a kid (heck, I just wanted to sleep all summer days away and play tayokok). Boy, I wish now that I knew better then.
The workshop above is Hendri's current advocacy, to help out local kids explore their potential, and to bring the best of local theater to somewhere nearer to us in the Visayas. (Because why go to Manila when you can just go to Cebu?) I do hope this becomes a success in every sense of that word. Break a leg, Hends!
For a minute there -- or for a few days at least -- the weeks were upended in some kind of limbo, with things always in suspended animation, and I had no idea what was up or down. Worse, I had no idea I was actually descending back to "unhappy." But I caught myself just in time -- or at least the universe corrected my circumstances. And now I'm back to "happy" once again, thank God. It took a few dose of reality pills and a reassessment of how things should go, but I'm back to that loose freedom I felt last January. And my new mantra now, besides "Fuck it" and "The days to come will be beautiful," is: "'Kilig' is the answer to all the world's problems, next to an all-day spa session." Isn't that the truth to end all truths?
[it smells and feels like a sigur rós afternoon, by the way]
With Ross Camara and Susan Lara, August 2008. Barely a year ago. Facebook -- and all its archived photos of you -- has a way of reminding you about some mistakes you've made. I saw this again today, and I was like, Oh my freakin' god.
12:46 PM |
Because I Will Actually Miss The Mokongs. (Damn Graduation!)
The past two years, come graduation time, have been hard. I've grown very close kasi to a number of students I could very well call my friends. After this year, there will only be a few left. Those who already have (Dirgy, RJ, Michelle, Lyde, Jazz, Clyde, Lycar, Ray Donn, Aiken, Hope, The Dulnuan Bunch, Magenta, and so many others) or will soon be passing through the portals of Silliman to exit towards their own post-collegiate lives will become part of an irretrievable past no amount of reunions can ever make happen again. And it's sad. But also happy, the fact that I have somehow become part of some young people's lives.
So guys -- Jordan, Marianne, Cessy, Pong, Micah, Matti, Kim, Bryan, Marvin and the rest of the Physics Boys, Gerard, Dom, RC, and all the rest -- you know I mean this with the deepest love and affection: maayo unta'g mangahagbong mong tanan.Wahahaha! (Wink.)
Dumaguete LitCritter-at-large Anthony Gerard Odtohan takes to directing a short comedy! (Who would have thought of that?) Starring his new girl! For his media studies class! In my old alma mater, the International Christian University in Tokyo! (Boy, his room reminds me of my old room...)
Let's see how Facebook has somehow changed the way I think about things. Every time I would do something, my first thought is: Hey, this would make a good status update message. In the gym today, two things that would make good status messages sprang to mind while I went from one machine to the next...
Upon alighting from the cardio machine after 30 minutes of sweating: "Ian = Murder on the Dancefloor + Music Gets the Best of Me + If I Can't Dance + Me and My Imagination + Navras = good cardio workout on the elliptical machine"
And then, upon checking my weight on the scale: "Ian is finally the weight he used to lie about in his resume."
Every time you tell your court of nodding friends That this boy, or that boy, has been staring at you Non-stop The whole night, In a restaurant, or a bar, or a crawl in a parking lot, Their beautiful eyes dark with delicious design -- I ask myself: What do they really stare at? Your pudgy face laced with the dreadful Incursions of wrinkles and defeat? How you must think yourself beautiful, A catch for another night's tumble In your bed. How you must believe In your fantasy that you are the capital of lust, Your body a wonderland. Such courage. Such denial of the unspoken truth that these dark boys Look only at you For the fat wallet that you are.
I love the film version of The Devil Wears Prada, but for me, it pales in comparison to the stark fashion reality that is Unzipped, Douglas Keeve's film about fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi as he tries to put out his 1994 winter collection. This is simply one of my favorite documentaries. But I have always been fascinated by movies that take into account the creative process of artists and the brilliant madness that go with it -- and this one, showcasing the beautiful pandemonium that is the fashion world, provides one of the most insightful look. (Plus, it doesn't hurt that we become somewhat privy to an aspect of the lives of supermodels and stars... See Linda Evangelista snarl! Hear Naomi Campbell sing!) The film, and I'm lifting this wholesale from the Amazon description, "begins with Mizrahi reading mixed reviews of his 1993 show of new outfits and then follows him for the next year as [he] seeks inspiration for his next public showcase. Sardonic, witty, and immensely likable, Mizrahi sets about finding his new muse, which turns out to be a lively but unlikely marriage of '1950s cheesecake meets Eskimo fake fur.' Keeve shows us most stages of the production process and the related disasters and heightened anxieties that attend. He also gives us a big finish with a fly-on-the-wall look at the backstage mania that fuels those celebrity-packed rituals, where leggy supermodels walk dispassionately down long runways. Some of the best, bitchiest stuff is in the way the busy models deal with the presence of Keeve's cameras: Naomi Campbell comes across as a crab while Cindy Crawford could easily be anybody's swell, flirty pal. But we already knew that, didn't we? Shot mostly in black and white, with color stock reserved, quite wisely, for the climactic big show." I had a VHS copy of this film way back in college, but you know how time does not exactly bode well for old-fashioned magnetic tape: it became fodder for mildew. I have never found a DVD copy of this anywhere, but guess what. I found the entire film in YouTube, where all good cinematic things seem to happen. This is the first clip of eight parts:
Follow the links in the original YouTube page, and enjoy the rest of the film as I did years ago. (And isn't Sandra Bernhard's version of "You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)" in the beginning of the film simply magnificent? I had no idea the comedian could sing soulfully like that.)
[listening to vangelis' end title score for blade runner]
Not all kinds of anger are vexations to the spirit, negative outbursts that have no place in polite society. I remember that New Testament image of Jesus rampaging in the corrupted courtyard of the temple, bellowing, knocking things over, calling the gathered throng a nest of vipers. There are some forms of anger that purifies, that knocks you off the false foundation of some static form of complacency, and slaps you with the delicious truth you may have refused to acknowledge for the longest time. That "truth" might have been there all along, an answer that has been calling your attention, but that you have refused to even look at it, or see if it feels right. As to why not, who knows? Maybe because we are often cowards, and loves to bask in the artificial comfort of false conclusions.
I avoided a potential dramatic situation in the gym today.
When I walked away, unable to even set foot in the gym's grey confines, I was surprised at feeling a little angry. Surprised because I knew I was bound to stumble on them sooner or later. But I knew I wasn't prepared -- yet -- to make nice chitchat, and pretend it didn't have to be awkward.
Because it is still awkward.
And I felt even angrier when I sat down in Don Atilano to relax with my favorite Dumaguete coffee, opened my Facebook, statused subtly about my predicament -- and somebody else of the same stature in my life messaged me, and joked that I was being ... a drama queen.
Putang ina!
Did I need that? Did I need this kind of afternoon, from the both of them?
I tell you, Dumaguete is not big enough for me and my past.
11:01 AM |
Zapped Into Eternal Ecstacy By the Pagoda Cold-Wave Motion Gun
For a play that first reared its fabulous red head way back in 2006, its longevity on stage is quite telling -- and that is how one must call it now, a play of considerable "longevity," given the vaporous thing that is a typical Philippine theatrical run. Armed with a Pagoda Cold-Wave Motion Gun ready to zap anyone who will carp and disagree, we might as well acknowledge that Carlo Vergara's ZsaZsa Zaturnnah ze Muzikal -- adapted from the comic book by Chris Martinez with direction by Chris Millado -- has (are you ready for this?) sashayed its way to a spot in the hallowed selection of local theater classics, the way Nick Joaquin's Portrait of the Artist as a Filipino or Alberto S. Florentino's The World is an Apple or Wilfredo Ma. Guerrero's Wanted: A Chaperone or Orlando Nadres's Hanggang Dito na Lamang at Maraming Salamat are constantly returned to, again and again. And rightfully so. A commercial and critical hit when it first came out as a Tanghalang Pilipino production, the merry (and gay) adventures of ZsaZsa (of the fabulous red hair) has not overstayed its welcome since zapping into our consciousness three years ago -- and the clamor for it has remained, if one must judge by the full houses it has maintained, as well as the constant call for yet another run.
Given my Dumaguete bearings, I must confess I've only seen the show in its latest incarnation. But many weeks after I first saw it during its Valentine run in the CCP Little Theater, ZsaZsa Zaturnnah ze Muzikal -- already a pop culture phenomenon now in its sixth staging* -- stubbornly remains like a sweet, wonderful infection in my head.
An infection, I tell you: it has spread in my system like a mad, beloved musical virus whose sole symptom consists of my ability to suddenly belt out extremely singable show tunes. From the energetic chorus of "Heto na sa wakas, heto na! / Ang pagkakataong hinihintay natin sa wakas ay dumating!" to the triumphant "Ikaw ang superhero ng buhay kong ito / Ikaw ang Krystala at Darna ko / Ang Sugo at Mulawin ko, Lastikman at Gagamboy / Si Volta at Kapten Barbel ko / Ang Super G ng buhay ko... / Ikaw ang superhero ng buhay ko!", the songs stay with you.
Who would have thought there would be days where Joey Paras's unequaled rendition of the comic/dramatic swan song "Nakikita Ko Na ang Nakakasilaw na Ilaw" would become a kind of morning song for me, something I'd unconsciously press play in my CD player while I go about preparing for my day? The song's pathos is heartfelt -- but at the same time, its wicked comic edge allows us to step back a little bit and wink at the whole melodrama of it all.
Any theater critic worth his salt will probably tell you that this is the ultimate litmus test for how a musical can withstand the wear-and-tear of time and audience interest: a musical that hums, and continues to hum even after the last curtain call has been done, has the best chances of becoming a veritable theater "classic." Carlo Vergara's tale of an angst-ridden gay parlorista -- who finds himself, after swallowing a big stone, transformed into a titan of a superheroine, battling with zombies, giant frogs, and Amazon women schooled in the evil martial arts of local showbiz glitter -- is already a classic by that standard, if we are to judge by the sheer devotion it has almost inexplicably commanded from people who have seen it, and then loved it thoroughly. (If there must be Rentheads to describe the devotees of Jonathan Larson's Rent, there should now be a local equivalent: Zaturnettes, perhaps? Right, Hends? Right, Gibbs? Right, Migs? Hehehe.)
It helps, of course, that the source material -- Vergara's inspired gay reworking of the Darna komiks -- is genuinely funny to begin with, and much more so because it borders on delicious innuendos. It is also something completely "relatable" for most Filipinos whose growing-up pop culture staples have included such guilty pleasures as the fantasy literature unleashed by Mars Ravelo and his komiks ilk. That the book is unabashedly gay and uses -- with complete aptness and comic timing -- the wit and zing of gay street lingo gives Ang Kagilagilalas na Pakikipagsapalaran ni ZsaZsa Zaturnnah an edginess and a sense of irony we have only limned from our favorite komiks tales such as Dyesebel, Dyosa, and of course Darna. Vergara has fleshed out what we have always somehow suspected about our superheroes, and yet he also does it with a kind of reverence for the whole komiks tradition: he pushes the envelope, yes, but he never burns it. I've been teaching the graphic novel in my Philippine literature class in Silliman University for some years now, and it has never failed to entertain my students, even when it finally becomes a vehicle for a very academic discussion on the role of komiks in our culture.
When I first heard that it was being adapted into a musical, I thought the effort would probably be disastrous. How would they do the frog attack? The zombies? The intricate transmorphication of the Amazonistas? Even more so, I wondered: how would ordinary Filipino theatergoers react to what is essentially a gay fantasia, where lonely gay man actually gets the handsome guy in the end? And would the music be any good at all?
I did not quite remember that theater is actually capable of making magic that even film, with all kinds of special effects at its disposal, cannot provide: the stage is a womb for imagination, and a creative use of trapdoors and revolving stages, scrims and curtains, shadows and light -- and even hammy puppet-like prosthetics meant to approximate legs in battle -- is enough to make the story believable, and enjoyable, without taxing our innate incredulity too much.
It also helps that the members of the cast embody their characters almost like second skin. Someone actually said that some of the actors -- many of them reprising roles they originated in 2006 -- were merely going through the motions, that there was a palpable lack of energy and surprise that was probably brought on by being overly familiar with what they had to do. That is a valid observation, and perhaps it is also true -- but as a first-time attendee, I enjoyed the interplay between camp and seriousness the actors tried to convey: Eula Valdez -- beautiful and buff and oozing with a sex appeal that bothered the gay man in me -- is a wonder to behold as ZsaZsa, displaying a voice, comic timing, and an inner knowledge of bayotness that would have proven fatal if the role was given to one with lesser talents; Tuxqs Rutaquio has the tricky role of making the angsty Ada relatable and lovable, and he does so with aplomb.
Kalila Aguilos as Queen Femina is relatively less successful -- she grimaces too much and tries too hard -- but she gives the role the correct measure of madness it demands, and for that, we enjoy her, too. Joey Paras as Didi has a role that seems designed to be a scene-stealer from the get-go, unfortunately for the main players -- but it still wouldn't have worked if Joey didn't invest so much humanity into his manic comedy. And a scene-stealer he indeed was. (For those who have yet to see the show, wait for Didi's announcement of the play's intermission -- it will have you in stitches.)
I was hoping that in the night I would finally see ZsaZsa, the Dodong that I would get would be Arnold Reyes. I got newcomer Red Anderson instead. A theater friend believes that Red's take on the Dodong role -- essentially the story's damsel-in-distress part -- is an altogether different attack from all the other Dodongs in the show's past. I don't know what he meant by that, having not seen Arnold's, Janvier Daily's, or Lauren Novero's take. From his films, however, Arnold displays an exquisite subtlety as an actor, and that is how I expected Dodong to be handled -- and in the end, at least for me, Red's presence on stage last February 13 was very much on the high-end of okay. It could have been more, of course: I wanted him to break my heart when he began to launch into the show's signature song, "Ikaw ang Superhero ng Buhay Ko." He didn't. But that's perfectly okay.
In the end, however, the heart of the show -- aside from Carlo's original story -- is the music by Vince de Jesus. Theater critic Gibbs Cadiz once reported in an article for the Philippine Daily Inquirer that "a critic, emerging from the show somewhat glassy-eyed, pronounced ZsaZsa's aural impact 'all noise'," that "a producer, rolling his eyes, said [his] melodies sounded all alike," and that "a director wondered why the music didn't just go all-out pop or local novelty." But what's success without the little carping? They may have valid points, but Vince's music for ZsaZsa -- which is a feast of a celebration of Filipino popular culture that takes in all sorts of dizzying influences ranging from komiks and OPM (Tuesday Vargas's "Hindi Ako Bakla" and Hotdog's "Ikaw ang Miss Universe ng Buhay Ko," for example), cheesy 1980s variety shows (like LoveliNess or Vilma!), and the lovable, much-missed cinematic schlock of Viva, Regal, and Seiko Films -- feels and sounds just right. That they remain in your head days and days after you've last seen the show is testament to the music's genius.
It is quite unfortunate, of course, that the only way most of the country have seen the material of the musical is through Joel Lamangan's horrible, dead-on-the-water cinematic version that languished in theaters during one forgettable edition of the annual Metro Manila Film Festival. That film is a virtual exercise in sacrilege (complete with unnecessary new characters perhaps conjured by Mother Lily to give work to talentless teenyboppers), and proves to be so even given the usual excuse that the film version of any text must transcend the original and become its own original art. Chris Millado, Chris Martinez, and Vince de Jesus did exactly that with Carlo Vergara's original material. Joel Lamangan, however, made it his toilet paper, and took the roll with him to some lamentable cinematic shit-hole. Which is sad because the play ends with so much joyful affirmation of love and humanity, designed to put its audiences on their feet, clapping, by the time the last note fades.
That is what I would remember most about ZsaZsa. How it completed one night for me into a brand of funny, sly, wicked, musical magic.
ZsaZsa Zaturnnah ze Muzikal is currently running in CCP Little Theater, with the following schedule: March 6 (with Vince, Nar, Arnold, Kalila at 8pm); March 7 (with Vince, Joey, Red, Meliza at 3pm, and Tuxqs, Joey, Red, and Kalila at 8pm); and March 8 (with Tuxqs, Nar, Red, and Kalila at 3pm and Tuxqs, Joey, Arnold, and Meliza at 8pm). Eula plays ZsaZsa in all the shows. More details are available here.
* something perhaps totally unheard of in the local theater scene: a gay musical based on local material -- not Broadway -- that has people clamoring for more and more.
1:08 AM |
A Conversation About High School Crushes During a Violin Concert
While the seven year old prodigy was beguiling the Luce audience with her violin playing, Rosewell, an old friend, and I got to talking about high school crushes. In hushed voices, while the sound of the violin fills the halls of the theater.
Me: I don't know...
Rosewell: Oh, come on. Tell me.
Me: Well, there was this one guy. No, two. No, three.
Rosewell: One, or two? Or three?
Me: I guess, when you are still in high school, you never even really think about it. What's to think? I mean, we must have known we liked this one guy or that one guy -- but I guess we can be in so much denial about our desires as well. How seriously naive we were. Can you imagine me earnestly thinking I was in love with Monica Martinez? I mean, what was up with that?
Rosewell: But you're not answering my question.
Me: ... I'm getting to it. Somebody asked me this question na before man gud, and it got me to thinking, really. Who did I have a crush on in high school ba? And was I even aware of it?
Rosewell: V.L. had a crush on you.
Me: Oh yeah. I bet that's not true. Why would V.L. have a crush on me? I was a scrawny kid... But I do remember V.L. taking my hand once after English class with Ma'am Banas, and led me to the CR. The one near the Principal's Office.
Rosewell: The girls' CR?
Me: That one.
Rosewell: And...?
Me: I don't know. I remember my mind racing, I was thinking, what was she trying to do ba?
Rosewell: Kiss you?
Me:Good God.
Rosewell: She must have kissed half the boys in our batch.
Me:Di naman siguro. I'm not sure the reputation we heaped on her was all true. High school can be wicked baya. But anyway, when she began closing the door, I think I mumbled something, and ran away.
Rosewell: Hehehe.
Me: Anyway, it got me thinking. I remember thinking J.Y. was quite cute. I liked his curly hair then. He was lean, and he had the brightest mestizo eyes.
Rosewell: He was going out with M.F. then, right?
Me: Yup.
Rosewell: But he was an upperclass guy. What about in our batch?
Me: Si J.P.P. But everybody had a crush on him, so I think nadala ra pud ko.
Rosewell: Plus he was the only one who had a Pajero.
Me: Yeah... J.P.P. doesn't really count then. It would be boring to even think about him.
Rosewell: Anyway...
Me:Anyway. I had a crush on you once.
Rosewell: Bullshit.
Me: True! You were seriously hot, Rose. Hehehe. Had a crush on J.D., too.
Rosewell: Why ba all of them starts with the letter "J"? And most of them soccer players, too?
Me:Ay, ambot. So typical, no? Crushes on the jocks? How utterly common.
Rosewell: Yup. All the girls in our batch had a crush on J.P.P.
Me: And probably a third of the boys as well. Hehehehe.
Rosewell: Hehehe.
Me: Then there's V.L.
Rosewell: At least this one's a V.
Me: Wait lang. Soccer player din yun dati, di ba?
Rosewell: Oh yeah...
Me: Didn't you love the way he was in high school? The clean cut hair, the slow walk, the crisp uniform?
Rosewell: He looked like a virginal boy waiting to be ravished.
Me:Mismo.
Rosewell: He has a wife and a kid now.
Me:Why?
Rosewell: He goes to the bank once in a while, to pay his HSBC bill.
Me: How come I don't ever see him around Dumaguete anymore?
Rosewell: Heck, we don't even see each other that much.
Me: But Dumaguete's small.
Rosewell: With too many places to hide. Hehehe.
Me: Anyway. Eventually it dawned on me now, years and years after high school... There was this one boy, actually. Remember him? He dropped out of our batch man gud. He never really graduated with us. But I've been thinking about him since somebody asked me this stupid high school crush question. And I realize, only now, that my God, he was my biggest high school crush pala. I just didn't know it then.
Rosewell: In denial?
Me:Mismo.
Rosewell: Who ba?
Me:Si J.A.
Rosewell: Come on. Another "J"?
Me: Oh God, you're right! And another soccer player, too.
Rosewell: Let's just say you have a type, hehehe.
Me: But seriously, sometimes there are nights when I think about where he is, right now. Is he still the same? Or has he grown fat and ugly, like most of our classmates?
Rosewell:Ikaw jud.
Me: But it's true!
Rosewell:Di ba he transferred to Foundation University?
Me: Yup, and nag-uban pa man gani mi ato niya sa Bohol, where we were part of the Regional Schools Press Conference. He was a photographer for their school paper then. That was, I think, the last time I ever saw him.
Rosewell: Maybe he's in Friendster. Check him out.
Me: I deleted my Friendster account na. It was becoming a little too baduy.
Rosewell: Facebook?
Me: Searched for him a thousand times. There's a J.A. somewhere in there, but it's not him.
Rosewell: Google?
Me: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It is as if he doesn't exist at all.
Rosewell: Maybe you just imagined him. Maybe he doesn't really exist.
Me: If that's the case, this life is not worth living anymore.
Rosewell: Drama ka.
Me:Mismo.
The violin prodigy has finished playing. The audience erupts into a wild applause.
About two years ago, I was interviewed by Bookwatch, the NBDB magazine, for a special issue on women writers. Their first question was “Why do you love to read?” I remember beginning my reply by saying “I like this question, much more than ‘Why do you write?’ which I dread because it never fails to stump me.”
And now the dreaded question is right before me, and I was told to give a 30-minute long answer.
What I usually do when facing something I dread is to break it up into manageable chunks. So I would like to divide my answer into two parts: “Why I started writing” and “Why I keep writing.”
Why I started writing
When Flannery O’Connor was asked why she wrote, she said “I write because I’m good at it.” That may sound arrogant, but it makes a lot of sense. You do whatever you’re good at, and that makes you feel good.
Once, when one of Robert Frost’s students had the temerity to ask him why anyone should write in the first place, Frost said, “I don’t know why you should write, but I know why I do. I don’t get the same satisfaction out of doing anything else.”
That resonates with me. When I was a child I tried to create my own stories by emulating the tales in the children’s books my father brought home after work. I invented people, imagined fantastic things happening to them, frustrated them with obstacles, made them victorious, and rewarded them with happy lives ever after. That made me feel powerful, and it made up for the powerlessness I felt as a child.
You see, I am the youngest of five children. My parents had two sons, followed by two daughters, two years apart from one another. Twelve years after their second daughter was born, I came into my parents’ life, sort of an afterthought. When you’re eight years old, and the sibling chronologically closest to you is 20, you feel your smallness more acutely than children with siblings not much older than they. I made up for that feeling with my imagination. I created my own world, a world in which I decided who lived, or died, and I experienced the flat-out childish delight in playing god. Any child who has played with dolls and action figures can relate to that. Even Nobel Prize winner Wislawa Szymborska is not immune to the intoxicating power of the imagination, no matter how illusory or temporary. She celebrates this power in her poem “The Joy of Writing”:
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say, and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities, full of bullets stopped in mid-flight. Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so. Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall, not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.
What started as a compensatory mechanism continues to this day, although the reasons have become more complex. Pleasure is still part of it—my friend Rowena Torrevillas once wrote about knowing the “pleasures of grasping a word, of judging its heft and roughnesses and its fine, sharp edges.” I love that image of the writer grasping a word, holding it just the way a jeweler would hold a precious stone, feeling its heft, its weight, its importance.
Yes, I will always take pleasure in the romance of living by the pen. But you and I know, that romances turn into marriages all too soon, and we need more than pleasure to sustain them.
I was never a big fan of Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, but I realized how sensible he is when I read his comment about the writing profession: “I don’t enjoy writing, and I certainly would not do it for a living. Some people do, but some people enjoy flagellation.”
Truer words were never spoken. Flagellation. What an apt metaphor for what we do.
Despite the pleasure writing brings, despite the proliferation of how-to-write books with titles like Anybody Can Write and seminars with breezy, perky titles like “Creative Writing Made Easy,” the fact is that writing is not easy, and it doesn’t get easier the more you do it. Writing is one activity where experience doesn’t count. Every time I sit down to begin a story or an essay, I feel like a beginning writer all over again. And for all my talk about discipline, I have a string of work-avoidance tactics long enough to last me a lifetime, ranging from sharpening pencils I don’t intend to use, to emptying my spam folders and recycle bins, to organizing my closet—anything to delay having to face that blank screen, and that blinking cursor.
And when I finally confront my story, I spend hours looking for the “inevitable word,” the precise word for which there can be no substitute, to describe my character, the character with whom I wrestle and quarrel because he can be as infuriating as a toddler going through his terrible two’s.
And for what? Not for any monetary reward, I assure you. For handling a business writing seminar, I get paid P10,000 a day—that’s two or three times as much as I’ll get for slaving over a short story for months.
And when you have enough stories for a collection, you come up with a book—but let’s not even talk about royalties.
Why I keep writing
Few writers write for money, and those who do, acknowledge that there are easier ways to make a living.
But I was hooked from the time I studied fiction writing under National Artist Franz Arcellana. The first story I submitted to the class was ripped to half—almost literally—by the class. And Franz, who was the soul of gentleness, said the epigraph—a line from T.S. Eliot, I think—was well-chosen. I felt sorry for myself, but sorrier for Franz, as I watched him struggle to find something else to praise, aside from the part that was not even mine. After class, I confessed to him that I was dejected, discouraged, and wondered if it was worth it for me to persist.
“Look,” he said, “you have a story. Only you know that story. Only you can write it the way you do. What if you die tomorrow? Then the world will forever be ignorant of what you know, and you will forever be responsible for that ignorance!”
Thus, the concept of stewardship of one’s talent was instilled in me before I was even sure I had the talent to steward. This was later reinforced by my next mentors, the late Edilberto Tiempo and National Artist Edith Tiempo, Dad and Mom to many of us.
So, while I started to write because I could, and wanted to, I keep writing because I must. That word, “must,” has to be taken in both senses: in its sense as duty and its sense as compulsion, because stories cry to be written, and will not be silenced until they are on paper. John Ciardi once told a group of powerful businessmen: “An ulcer… is an unwritten poem.” It is also an unwritten story.
Life is a story. It has twists and turns, heroes and villains, rising and falling actions. But it’s easy for the day’s events to lose their meaning and direction in the routines of daily living. By writing I give order, form, significance and permanence to the fleeting and seemingly random incidents that happen to me and people around me; I am the tube and mirrors in a kaleidoscope that give shape to random pieces of paper, beads, and confetti. I try to reframe experience in a way that, although intensely personal, reverberates deeply in someone who reads my story. I suppose I can give the same “message” in a speech, but the experience of living through the fear, the terror, the humiliation, the ecstasy, whatever it is I want to share with my reader—I can give only through the evoked reality of a carefully crafted story.
Writing is a way of seeing life whole. That involves seeing life through the eyes of other people, especially people I do not agree with, people who irritate me, people I’d rather not see on Monday mornings, or when my day is just beginning. People I would tend to demonize, if I were not a writer.
It is not possible for me to demonize anyone, because when I create my story’s villain, I do more than write a biographical sketch; I inhabit my villain. I see the world through his eyes. I find the dark places in my soul—we all have these secret dark places—and stay there for a while. I imagine how it could be if I decided to pursue my own interest regardless of who gets hurt. I have to accept that I’m not all sugar and sunshine; that a part of me is capable of stepping on people’s toes, capable of hurting them. With this act of acceptance of my dark side, I could write this villain from a place of understanding—knowing that I could be him or her; that this villain is not a one-dimensional caricature, but a whole person, just like my hero—with vulnerabilities, fears, miseries, as well as hopes and dreams as real and intense as mine.
Writing—writing fiction, especially—is my way of feeling the commonality I share with everyone else. That balances the literary ego that every writer must have to be able to bear exposure, which is what we do when we turn our lives into stories in which our readers can recognize us, as well as themselves.
Delivered during the observance of World Book and Copyright Day Jointly sponsored by the National Book Development Board and Intellectual Property Philippines Filipinas Heritage Library, 23 April 2008
2:04 PM |
The Sweetest Thing
As a Mass Communication graduate, I am fairly troubled by the current downturn in the industry when one journalist after another are fast losing their jobs -- even the New York Post's legendary gossip columnist Liz Smith lost hers! -- simply because the Internet is here to stay and nobody buys newspapers and magazines anymore. Will the newspaper industry survive? What happens to my other profession when it has been pronounced officially dead? (Well, dead, obviously.) If it doesn't survive, what replaces the old system? Gawker's Clay Shirky tells us that it pays to take a close look at the 1500s when the printing press revolution shattered an old world, and brought in a form of "chaos," similar to what we have right now. I like this part:
I love the film version of The Devil Wears Prada, but for me, it pales in comparison to the stark fashion reality that is Unzipped, Douglas Keeve's film about fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi as he tries to put out his 1994 winter collection. This is simply one of my favorite documentaries. But I have always been fascinated by movies that take into account the creative process of artists and the brilliant madness that go with it -- and this one, showcasing the beautiful pandemonium that is the fashion world, provides one of the most insightful look. (Plus, it doesn't hurt that we become somewhat privy to an aspect of the lives of supermodels and stars... See Linda Evangelista snarl! Hear Naomi Campbell sing!) The film, and I'm lifting this wholesale from the Amazon description, "begins with Mizrahi reading mixed reviews of his 1993 show of new outfits and then follows him for the next year as [he] seeks inspiration for his next public showcase. Sardonic, witty, and immensely likable, Mizrahi sets about finding his new muse, which turns out to be a lively but unlikely marriage of '1950s cheesecake meets Eskimo fake fur.' Keeve shows us most stages of the production process and the related disasters and heightened anxieties that attend. He also gives us a big finish with a fly-on-the-wall look at the backstage mania that fuels those celebrity-packed rituals, where leggy supermodels walk dispassionately down long runways. Some of the best, bitchiest stuff is in the way the busy models deal with the presence of Keeve's cameras: Naomi Campbell comes across as a crab while Cindy Crawford could easily be anybody's swell, flirty pal. But we already knew that, didn't we? Shot mostly in black and white, with color stock reserved, quite wisely, for the climactic big show." I had a VHS copy of this film way back in college, but you know how time does not exactly bode well for old-fashioned magnetic tape: it became fodder for mildew. I have never found a DVD copy of this anywhere, but guess what. I found the entire film in YouTube, where all good cinematic things seem to happen. This is the first clip of eight parts:
For a play that first reared its fabulous red head way back in 2006, its longevity on stage is quite telling -- and that is how one must call it now, a play of considerable "longevity," given the vaporous thing that is a typical Philippine theatrical run. Armed with a Pagoda Cold-Wave Motion Gun ready to zap anyone who will carp and disagree, we might as well acknowledge that Carlo Vergara's ZsaZsa Zaturnnah ze Muzikal -- adapted from the comic book by Chris Martinez with direction by Chris Millado -- has (are you ready for this?) sashayed its way to a spot in the hallowed selection of local theater classics, the way Nick Joaquin's Portrait of the Artist as a Filipino or Alberto S. Florentino's The World is an Apple or Wilfredo Ma. Guerrero's Wanted: A Chaperone or Orlando Nadres's Hanggang Dito na Lamang at Maraming Salamat are constantly returned to, again and again. And rightfully so. A commercial and critical hit when it first came out as a Tanghalang Pilipino production, the merry (and gay) adventures of ZsaZsa (of the fabulous red hair) has not overstayed its welcome since zapping into our consciousness three years ago -- and the clamor for it has remained, if one must judge by the full houses it has maintained, as well as the constant call for yet another run.