Poverty porn

An interesting discussion with a fellow filmmaker the other day. He said, “Let’s stop making poverty porn.” Usually, I wouldn’t waste time on such a narrow-minded pronouncement. But the filmmaker went on to define “poverty porn” in a way I haven’t heard before: “Why is it that when you watch Slumdog Millionaire,” he asked, “you don’t leave the theater saying, ‘Wow, India is so awful!’ But when you watch a Filipino film at a festival, you leave thinking about how bad the country is?”

Reminds me of a thought I had last November at the Thessaloniki Film Festival in Greece, where a sidebar of Philippine cinema was presented. After seeing some of our films there, I realized a common thread among many of our movies. It’s a sense of hopelessness. “That sinking feeling,” if you will.

To wit:

In Adela, 80-year-old Anita Linda’s character spends her birthday alone, her hopes of a reunion with her family dashed; the glory of her past, a distant memory. Director Adolf Alix ends the film with Anita Linda in a picnic by herself, staring out into the ocean, crying; the sunset behind her.

In Bakal Boys, Gina Pareño’s character’s grandson — a young boy who has dropped out of school in order to be a metal diver — goes missing. Writer-director Ralston Jover ends the film when Pareño’s search turns up nothing but the boy’s paddle board; she stares sadly into the sea as the sun sets behind her.

In Tribu, Jim Libiran’s film about the gangster rappers of Tondo, the final scene involves a child who, upon hearing the sound of his mother having sex, thinks she’s being hurt and takes up a gun. The cycle of violence continues.

And of course, in my film Engkwentro, two brothers who are trying to escape from the gang life are killed by the city mayor’s vigilante death squad. Their hopes and dreams for the future, which we discover during the course of a day, are gone with the sound of a gunshot. This is based on true events.

“That sinking feeling” exists in our cinema, and after screening Engkwentro numerous times, I will admit that there are audiences that actually seem to get off on it. Hence, the “poverty porn” tag — the accusation that some filmmakers deliberately indulge these sensations.

But I’d like to make it clear that I take great exception to this accusation. First, it carries so many assumptions about the filmmakers and their motives, spurring a discussion of hypotheticals rather than valid arguments. Moreover, it’s a hasty generalization. Some people have a fetish for Asian girls, but that doesn’t make pornographers out of every person that takes photos of Asian girls. Some people get off on “that sinking feeling” but that doesn’t make pornographers out of every Filipino who makes films that express it.

In fact, I believe “that sinking feeling” is a representation of Philippine national sentiment. Certainly, it wasn’t a concerted effort among some Filipino filmmakers to make depressing movies. I mean, I’ve never had alignment meetings with Adolf Alix, Jim Libiran or Ralson Jover. It’s just something that has come out organically.

Just look at our narrative traditions. The lore of many of our heroes ends with tragedy: Jose Rizal was executed by the Spaniards; Andres Bonifacio was killed by his own people; Ninoy Aquino, assassinated allegedly on the orders of the late dictator Ferdinand Marcos. There’s that sinking feeling.

Take Rizal’s El Filibusterismo, which is taught to every Filipino student in high school and college as one of the country’s most treasured literary gems. The novel ends depressingly as well: Protagonist Simoun loses all hope for a revolution against Spain and commits suicide. His remaining wealth is then thrown into the sea with the hopes that it only resurfaces when the nation is ready. There’s that sinking feeling.

Ask many a Filipino today about how they feel life has improved since the 1986 EDSA Revolution, and you’ll get that sinking feeling. Ask many a Filipino today about the elections this May, and you’ll get that sinking feeling.

So, to demand filmmakers to get rid of it is like demanding people to hide their true emotions and paint a smile over a pout. It’s like building a facade of beautiful houses to cover the sight of slum areas — preposterous, but this really happens! Like a scene in Engkwentro where when the father beats his child up over missing drugs, a nearby radio starts playing, “Ang saya saya!” (“Life’s so happy!”) — a line, believe it or not, that wakes millions of Filipinos up each day so they can forget the dreary lives they inhabit.

This. Is. Wrong.

Perhaps Jose Rizal, in his 1887 prologue for Noli Mi Tangere, explains why best:

“The Philippines has a social cancer… so, desiring its welfare and seeking the best treatment, I will do with it what the ancients did with their sick, exposing them on the steps of the temple so that every one who came to invoke the Divinity might offer them a remedy.

“To this end, I will strive to portray its condition faithfully… I will uncover the evil, sacrificing everything, even vanity itself… because I am conscious that even I suffer from its weaknesses and defects.”

Two centuries ago, it took Rizal’s books to spark change. I have no doubt that motion pictures will do that for this age. Today, we read Rizal’s books to remember what it was like then. In the future, people will watch films to remember what it is like now.

So, to that filmmaker, I say: The day we stop making what you call “poverty porn” is the day our streets our clean, our leaders do their jobs, and majority of Filipinos are no longer starving. As far as I’m concerned, we’re working towards that day. What about you?

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