Memoirs of a katana: Remembering Direk Marilou Diaz-Abaya

MANILA, Philippines - Anyone who’d ever seen or met Marilou Diaz-Abaya understood her tenacity and her strength. They knew her as someone who had the balls to make films that talked about important topics few people were comfortable discussing. She made some of the most significant films about women to ever come out of the Philippines (Moral, Karnal, Brutal), after which she discussed things like life-threatening child labor in illegal fishing trades (Muro Ami) and the intricacies of the long-standing Muslim rebellion (Bagong Buwan).

 Direk, as she preferred to be called, believed in the power of film to shape a culture or console a broken heart. She spent hours explaining that films were the manifestation of primitive practices, when cavemen used to sit around a fire and tell stories. The stories allow each person to adjust the focus of their pain, to connect with someone else, and find consolation in the shared experience. She used to say that one could spend thousands of pesos going to see a doctor, or spend P150 to sit in a cinema to forget for 90 minutes. She was the proof, too: On days when her chemotherapy was unkind to her, she would ask for her copies of the Pink Panther films and laugh.

A mythical katana

 She was was an enigma, especially for those of us privileged enough to have been her students. She was light and dark, inspiration and discipline, meditation and chatter. She was a mythical creature comprised of complex emotions, high intellect, oceans of talent, and the rare ability to speak in haikus and tankas. Direk used to say that she was a katana — “forged in the fires of hell, and tempered by the waters of paradise” — used to cut us down to size when so required.

 But she was never all business all the time, and delighted in keeping us on our toes. I remember my first year at film school in 2007. At the time, Direk was still undergoing chemotherapy, and she beckoned me outside the classroom, asking for a cigarette. I almost pissed myself. I was in her school, on her property, at her mercy, and I didn’t know how to say no. A panicked voice squeaked out of me, saying, “Direk, I really don’t think it’s a good idea.” She slapped me on the wrist and giggled. “I’m just kidding. You really froze!”

 Years later, we were in pre-production for the last film she would ever direct, Ikaw Ang Pag-ibig.  We had a particularly brutal meeting, after which, she batted her eyelashes at me and said, “Anak, I need something sweet.” I told her, “Direk, bawal.” She stared me down and declared, as though commanding my own beheading, “You will not tell me what I can and cannot eat. You will call Chowking and you will get me the largest halo-halo. Now.”

Life lessons

 Inside the classrooms, she was different. What she taught us was designed not only to make us able directors, but better people. She would tell us to position our cameras with our hearts, record sound with our imaginations, and edit on emotions instead of actions. It sounds corny now, but the veracity with which she taught made us believe that this was the better way of getting things done.

 Another favorite lesson of hers was economy and precision. “Don’t use three words when you can use one,” Direk would say. “If you manage to get it down to one word, don’t tell. Show.” She wanted us to get to the heart of the matter as succinctly as possible. She wasn’t impressed by how many words we could use or how witty we were, but by how appropriately we could use words or images to shed light on important human stories.

 To her, precision was integral, especially with her favored concept of “one plus one equals three.” For example, a man and a lipstick-stained collar in one frame is no longer the mere presence of a person and an article of clothing. When two ideas are juxtaposed, it can create an entirely new context and meaning. It is the exciting part of any creative venture, albeit an unmeasured power that requires responsible handling.

The importance of character

 But of all the lessons Direk imparted, her most valued was the importance of character. Everything we did, she asked that we center it on the character, on his significant human experience. The key thing we were asked to consider when constructing characters wasn’t the details we peppered them with to make them “real” — the music they listened to, their astrological sign, their favorite color, which movie they’d be most influenced by. The most important thing about a character, the only thing that really defines anyone we choose to tell a story about, is this: who they love, how they love, and what sacrifices they are willing to make because of that love. “Every movie is a love story,” she said.

 Two years ago, we were waiting for a flight to Naga City, where we shot Ikaw Ang Pag-ibig. Direk and I were having a random breakfast of siopao and apple turnovers while our other travel companions dozed off. She brought up the reality of her sickness, and the difficulties she rarely ever shared. She would always downplay the cancer, and make jokes about how her outfit for her coffin already hung in her closet. But that morning, underneath the fluorescent lights of NAIA terminal 3, I saw the more fragile side of this mythical creature. She said that every day wasn’t poetry. That even in the midst of terminal illness, there were arguments and struggle and heartache. She said that she tried her best as flesh and blood, and though she was mostly ready to go, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to leave her sons behind. She said that if she could stay for them, she would.

A lasting legacy

 Today, Direk is survived by thousands of sons and daughters, who might not be fruit of her loins, but whom she allowed to grow in her heart. She reared us all with her wisdom, her anger, her affection, and her faith. It was with love that she measured not only our work, but each of us, and it was with love that she lived. So we mourn, not because her suffering has finally met its end, but because we understand the privilege it was to be loved by her.

 An instructor of ours, upon news of Direk’s passing, posted the poem “Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye. It captured, with economy and precision, the final words Direk would probably have wanted us to hear:

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there,

I did not die.