The Philippine Independent Filmmakers Multi-purpose Cooperative (IFC) and Robinsons Movieworld presents:
sineKlasiks: Ang Mga Natatanging Pelikula ni Rosa Rosal.
Featuring Anak Dalita (directed by Lamberto V. Avellana, 1956), Badjao (directed by Lamberto Avellana, 1957), Biyaya ng Lupa (directed by Manuel Silos, 1959).
September 17-23, 2008, indieSine, Robinsons Galleria.
The opening night (Sept17, Wednesday) will have cocktails at 6pm to be followed by the screening of Anak Dalita.
For more information, contact Kints: 0905.2404177
sineKlasiks: Ang Mga Natatanging Pelikula ni Rosa Rosal.
Featuring Anak Dalita (directed by Lamberto V. Avellana, 1956), Badjao (directed by Lamberto Avellana, 1957), Biyaya ng Lupa (directed by Manuel Silos, 1959).
September 17-23, 2008, indieSine, Robinsons Galleria.
The opening night (Sept17, Wednesday) will have cocktails at 6pm to be followed by the screening of Anak Dalita.
For more information, contact Kints: 0905.2404177
The Rosa Rosal Films
By Clodualdo del Mundo, Jr.
Anak Dalita (1956): A Story of Poverty and Hope
The Philippines is capable of competing with the rest of Asian Cinema. Manuel de Leon knew this when he attended the 1954 Asian Film Festival. To meet this challenge – to be at par with the rest of Asian Cinema – LVN in 1956 produced Anak Dalita, with de Leon appointing Avellana to direct the film. Writing the screenplay was Rolf Bayer, with short story writer Estrella Alfon and critic T.D. Agcaoili as story consultants.
De Leon took his chances on two things in the making of the film: for one, he cast Tony Santos and Rosa Rosal in the leads. Up till then, Santos had been relegated to secondary roles, usually playing the lead actor’s best friend. He was not mestizo, unlike Jaime de la Rosa with his dashing look, or Mario Montenegro whose sharp features belied his dark skin. In other words, Santos was far from glamorous; indeed he looked purely Filipino. Rosa Rosal, on the other hand, was known for her roles as villainess – the wicked princess, the scheming vixen, the hateful stepmother. In those days, the cast had no box-office appeal whatsoever, but Avellana was looking for rawness of portrayal. Apart from the casting, de Leon’s other gamble was the material itself. The film was a serious drama, with neither songs nor laughs. Francisco Santiago’s kundiman, Anak Dalita, although well-known, was too melancholic. Nevertheless, the project pushed through, thanks to the filmmakers’ determination to make a thoroughly unique film.
What is instantly notable is the film’s use of Intramuros, the historic city that was ruined during the Second World War. From the very first frame, it is obvious that the film was shot outside the studio. It is in this squatters’ nest that the story, a journey from poverty to hope, takes place.
Vic (Tony Santos) is a war veteran, who returns from Korea proudly bearing the badge of courage as a war hero. But a happy homecoming it is not – his mother dies in his arms, his war heroism is met by indifference, and squalor sits all around him. His sole companion is Tita (Rosa Rosal), a bar girl unashamed of her profession – “Napupudpod din ang sapatos ko, nagpapapawis din ako” (My shoes, too, get worn out; I sweat just as much as anyone else). Also with them is Ipe (Vic Bacani), Tita’s adolescent brother who, having grown up in the harsh realities of Intramuros, had long since lost his naiveté.
What future is there for a war veteran with one useless arm? Is a good heart enough for a prostitute to get by with? “Hindi naman maaring palagi na lang tayong maralita… kinakailangan ding mabuhay tayo nang mariwasa” (We can’t be poor forever… things have to get better), Vic tells Tita. The bar owner Carlo (Joseph de Cordova) has the answer: “Isa lang ang layunin ng tao sa mundo… pera” (Man lives only for one purpose… money).
The opportunity to make money comes with the arrival of a broken sculpture of the Blessed Mother. Father Fidel (Vic Silayan) brings the damaged item to be fixed for shipping to Hong Kong . Seeing the sculpture is hollow inside, Carlo comes up with a scheme – to slip thousands of dollars inside the statue, and safely smuggle it out of the country. The sculpture, a symbol of counsel and hope for many, becomes the bringer of good fortune Vic has desperately been hoping for.
In the end, good ultimately triumphs. Unbeknown to anyone, Tita takes the money from the statue, and stashes it on the wall of the Intramuros cathedral. Vic subdues Carlo, who falls off, money scattering into the wind. Yes, faith does eventually prevail - “sa tunay na pananampalataya at pag-asa” (with true belief and hope) – Father Fidel says with finality. Even Carlo, at his final breath, expresses his regret – “Nagsisisi ako, padre… kung ang salaping ito’y makatutulong sa mahihirap, tanggapin ninyo, padre…” (I’m sorry, Father… if this money will help the poor, take it…).
Anak Dalita is hardly Avellana’s first feature; at that time he had already directed more than forty films. Avellana was at the peak of his career; his control of the film is evidence of a master filmmaker. The mise en scène is simple, the direction economical, the camerawork controlled. Avellana’s style is akin to that of neorealism. Often his shots linger, not spliced into the shot-reverse- shot that is a strong Hollywood convention.
From the very first frame of the film, the authenticity of Intramuros is instantly felt. People swarm about, children play, women gossip while one breastfeeds her child, a barber goes about his work – these images are far from what we would normally see in studio-shot films. It is a big step that Avellana and Manuel de Leon undertook for Anak Dalita. Seeing the destitution plaguing Intramuros, the filmmakers resolved to bring the film to life in this environment. The problem, however, is whether the filmmakers did actually understand the real issue. Vic and Tita are characters living right smack in the middle of this squalor, numbered among the touted children of poverty. How are these people to be freed from their indigence? Carlo’s way is not the answer. Father Fidel holds the key to their deliverance – “Ang pananalig ay nanggagaling sa tunay na pananampalataya at pag-asa… ipagpaubaya natin sa panahon ang paglutas ng suliraning it” (Faith comes with true belief and hope… leave it to time to heal our troubles). And that is what happens in the film. By the end of the movie, Father Fidel announces that a settlement has been established for the poor folk of Intramuros. Reality tells a different story, however. Forty years hence, the cathedral stands strong and proud, yet poverty still abounds.
I am not attempting to disparage the film Avellana and Manuel de Leon made. Anak Dalita is a landmark film in the history of Philippine Cinema. It won the Golden Harvest Award in the third Asian Film Festival. And facing life with hope in our hearts is hardly a bad thing. But how long must the children of poverty wait?
Badjao (1957): Bridging the Gap between Land and Sea
“Sisisid ako hanggang sa pusod ng dagat. Higit na maalindog si Bala Amai kaysa sa pinakamalaking perlas na bughaw” (I shall dive into the deepest ocean. Bala Amai is far lovelier than the largest blue pearl), Hassan (Tony Santos) tells his fellow Badjao clansman, Asid (Leroy Salvador). Hassan would defy anything to follow his heart. When he weds Bala Amai (Rosa Rosal), a woman from another tribe, not only is Asid incredulous, Hassan’s father also renounces him – “Hindi na kita anak! (You are no longer my son!)”
Time passes and Bala Amai perceives in her husband a longing for the ocean. The sea is too much a part of Hassan’s life. In one scene, Bala Amai wakes from a bad dream to find Hassan no longer in bed with her. She gets up to find him. We see her in the background as she steps out of the house; in the foreground is Hassan, lying on a canoe, face to the sky. Here, Avellana’s mise en scène conveys to us just how much meaning the sea holds in the life of a Badjao.
Produced in 1957 after the success of Anak Dalita, Badjao is a clear example of Avellana’s style of mise en scène: he plays with foreground and background elements to convey, in a single shot, the connection between them. Other examples further illustrate this: Datu Tahil (Joseph de Cordova) and Ismail (Oscar Keesee) approach Hassan to convince him to dive for pearls. Hassan sits with his two visitors; behind him Bala Amai stands by the doorway, quietly listening. No amount of wealth will sway Hassan, though; his love for his wife and clan outweighs everything else. In another scene, when the datu’s men burn down Hassan and Bala Amai’s hut, the couple flees to their canoe by the seaside. While their hut blazes in the distance, Bala Amai gives birth right there beside the boat. In a single shot, we see the contrast between fire and water, violence on land and safety on the sea.
At first glance, Badjao is unique among Avellana’s works. The setting is not a familiar city or province, but an exotic locale – the seaside community of the Badjao and the land of the Tausug. While the film’s portrayal of these places and peoples are more likely inaccurate than authentic, its setting makes Badjao different from the rest of the director’s other works. Delving deeply into Badjao, however, we would be able to discern elements similar to Avellana’s other films. Evil stems from material things; in Avellana’s world, this means money or the want of it. Ismail, a merchant from the lowlands, comes to the community, intent on buying large blue pearls. Ismail is dazzled by the beauty of the pearls; Datu Tahil, likewise, by the lure of money. Because of this, the datu is unable to see clearly the rights of the Badjao people to the sea. But typical of a villain in an Avellana film, in the end the antagonist undergoes a turnabout of character for the better. There are similarities between Datu Tahil and the character Carlo of Anak Dalita. It is not surprising that Joseph de Cordova plays both villains. All three are of one nature: money is their king. For Carlo, money is the solution to all things; the more money you have, the less do problems plague you. And as for Datu Tahil, ten large blue pearls is the price for his consent to Hassan and Bala Amai’s marriage. In the end, though, he realizes the worthlessness of this kind of life. But unlike Avellana's other villains, Datu Tahil does not need to be in the throes of death to experience catharsis. He listens to Hassan and takes his words to heart -- and this becomes his redemption.
Redemption comes in the end, not only for Datu Tahil, but for Hassan as well. Hassan goes home to his Badjao clansmen. He offers them his infant child, and as with what happens at the beginning of the film, the infant goes through a test. The baby is tossed into the water. Hassan’s friend Asid, unable to restrain himself, jumps in to save the child. In this ritual, the baby passes the test -- and so does the father. Hassan once turned his back on his nature and his people; his return is his own redemption.
Revisiting Biyaya ng Lupa (1959)
Biyaya ng Lupa has all the earmarks of an LVN prestige film – Rosa Rosal and Tony Santos, stars of Anak Dalita and Badjao, are also the main actors; Joseph de Cordova, the resident villain of LVN studio and the nemesis in Anak Dalita and Badjao, also appears as the dreadful Bruno in Biyaya ng Lupa; Leroy Salvador, who has asppeared as a deaf veteran in Avellana’s Huk sa Bagong Pamumuhay, plays deaf again as the son, Miguel.. It should be noted, too, that an important writer was on board in all these prestige films – Rolf Bayer in Anak Dalita and Badjao; Celso Carunungan, a literary writer in his own right, wrote the story and was involved in developing the screenplay of Biyaya ng Lupa. Finally, the material itself was significantly different from the usual genres. Also, it should be noted that a leading director was at the helm of these special projects. In the case of Biyaya ng Lupa, it was Manuel Silos.
Biyaya ng Lupa focuses on Jose (Tony Santos) and Maria (Rosa Rosal), a newly-married couple and their dream of having a happy, simple family life. They are blessed with four children – Miguel, who is born deaf; Arturo, who grows to be a strong farm hand but has dreams of his own; Angelita, whose beauty befits a village maiden; and Lito, the precocious child. The simple life of this Filipino family is disturbed by Bruno (Joseph de Cordova). Forced by this unstable man’s desire to find another woman after the death of his wife and his desire to have children of his own, Bruno gets enmeshed in the accidental death of Carmen and he is hunted down by the townspeople of Sta. Monica. He retreats to the forest and returns later with a vengeance. His object of vengeance is Jose, because he is what he is not – a family man with a wife and children. Bruno exacts this vengeance through Angelita, whom he rapes. Jose’s life is greatly disturbed. He himself seeks vengeance, but it ends with his own death. Arturo, on the other hand, not wanting to be tied down to the land, asks for his share of the inheritance and decides to try his luck in the city. The rich villager to whom Maria pawned her land, attempts a scheme with Bruno, so that Maria won’t be able to repay her debt. Fortunately, the scheme is thwarted by the immediate help of the townspeople. In the meantime, Arturo, the prodigal son, returns. The loving mother welcomes her repentant son with open arms. Soon, the lansones is harvested and Maria and her children enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Biyaya ng Lupa opens with a long celebration, a seemingly unending celebration of the couple’s wedding. The couple rides a cart that is pulled by a carabao. The townspeople follow, dancing merrily. While people do a folk dance, the couple face their elders. Advice is given to the couple for a fruitful and happy marriage. The celebration sequence moves on to the nipa hut of the couple. They gaze at their land and make promises to each other. Maria acknowledges, “Ang tungkulin ko’y kakambal ng aking buhay.” Jose, on the other hand, promises, “Ang pagmamahal ko’y hanggang libing.” Succeeding scenes follow at the ricefield where Maria brings food for Jose; at the front yard where Maria waters the seedlings; and Jose running from house to house, informing the old midwife, and in another house, the couple’s godfather, that Maria is in labor. Maria gives birth to a baby boy, but the midwife is wondering why the baby doesn’t even give a whimper. The name “Miguel” is carved on the trunk of a tree. A series of dissolves of the children’s names follows – “Arturo,” “Angelita,” “Carmen,” when the mother’s lullaby is followed by a pause, then a shrill cry; a cross is carved beside the name “Carmen” suggesting that the baby died; then, the name “Lito” follows. The children are now grown-up – Lito, the youngest, does the early morning errand to buy bread from the neighbor’s store; Miguel, we now find out, is deaf; Arturo is the strong son; Angelita, the beautiful, young daughter.
Undoubtedly, this is a long introduction and no dramatic situation has even been set up. This is a clear violation of conventional storytelling, specifically of the Hollywood variety. After this long introduction of the formation of the family, typhoon hits the town and destroys the flowers of the lansones trees. Nature displays its power, not sparing even a nice, God-fearing family. This is the first manifestation of conflict in the story. Is this going to be a man-versus-nature story? Apparently not, because nature remains detached in the succeeding scenes. However, we meet the villain in the story in the person of Bruno. This character, quite interestingly, is not naturally bad. The townspeople suspect that he killed his wife. Later events conspire to move Bruno to live the image that the townspeople think he is – “Kung ‘yun ang paniniwala nila, hindi ko sila bibiguin. Magpapakasama na ako.” In a real sense, he goes against his nature and turns horrendously evil.
The conflict that the family confronts in Bruno runs the story. However, I could sense that that is not exactly everything that is happening in the film. The conflict is exciting, but it is not necessarily what is captivating in this film. Re-viewing Biyaya ng Lupa, we can see characters connecting to and disconnecting from each other. Now, it makes sense why the opening sequence is quite long – especially by Hollywood standards. Jose and Maria are celebrating their marriage, their connection. Their names are not accidental; this is a marriage made in heaven. Jose and Maria, echoing their biblical counterparts, are archetypes that form the ideal couple. We, as spectators, might as well celebrate the event with them. We feel their joy; we are one with them in celebration of this momentous occasion.
This idea of connection explains the small, loving gestures that are so captivating in this film. Maria’s small gesture of kissing Lito when she wakes him up, or her loving caress to wake up Arturo, her soft kiss to wake up Angelita, and Angelita’s sweet smile to her mother – these small gestures suggest a connection, a bond among the members of this loving family.
Touching is an attempt at connection. Miguel, the deaf son, becomes fond of Gloria, the beautiful, young woman at the store. Miguel signs to connect with Gloria, shakes her hand, and in a later scene, they embrace. The morning after the typhoon, Jose is devastated. The lansones flowers are scattered on the ground. Years of hard labor has gone to waste; everything now is insecure. When Lito walks past him, Jose fails to greet his son, a sign of disconnection. Of course, the son wonders and sits beside the father to inquire, to establish connection. Until finally, Lito’s childish questioning brings a smile on Jose’s face and he ruffles the hair of the young boy. It is a simple gesture, but touching re-connects the father to his son.
There are scenes when a member of a family distances or disconnects herself/himself out of jealousy or anger. When this happens, they resort to the kiss to patch things up, to re-connect to each other, e,.g. Angelita and Lito’s little fight and Jose and Maria’s misunderstanding. The gesture of kissing is not foreign to anyone who has attempted to connect with a loved one; thus, the empathy is quite natural. The result, as far as the spectator is concerned, is being touched by being connected to the scene.
Jose and Maria’s family is a closely-knit one, a connected family. This connection is set up in the early scenes, quite easily as the small gestures look so natural. Thus, when tragedy hits any member of the family, the impact on us as spectators is equally great. The search for Angelita, who is raped by Bruno, acquires a certain urgency. When Jose finds Angelita and carries her back to the house, Maria, Miguel and Lito gather around her, to get close. Miguel blames himself for not coming home early to bring food to his father and brother at the rice field. Miguel sits alone under a tree, blaming himself for his sister’s fortune. Jose, seeing Miguel, gstures to Arturo to go to his brother to assuage his sadness. Arturo sits across Miguel, to keep him from being alone and lonely. A simple gesture, but the connection between the two brothers is palpable.
The encounter between Jose and Bruno ends tragically. Bruno shoots Jose and kills him on the spot. The mise en scene is inspired. The screen is virtually divided into two levels – the shooitng occurs on the upper half of the screen; below, we see Miguel, crossing the screen, unaware of the burst of gunfire. His deafness disconnects him from the tragic event that ends fatally for his father. Later, Miguel carries the lifeless body of his father home. He meets his mother and tries to explain that their father is gone. A hearing person would find difficulty explaining the loss of a loved one. What more for a deaf one?
Arturo’s story is an example of disconnection. He is enamored by what seems to be the lucky fortune of a fellow villager in the city. He desires to leave the village – ”Ayokong maging alipin ng lupa habang panahon,” he explains to his mother. Maria gets the bamboo coin bank that she has been saving for each of her children, caresses the bamboo, knowing fully well that breaking it would mean separation, disconnection. Still later, with his girlfriend in tow, Arturo comes back, not to connect with the family, but to even sever his ties more fully. Arturo asks for his share of inheritance from the land. Maria, the suffering mother, pawns the land to the rich villager, gives Arturo what he needs, and when the son with his city girlfriend leaves, Maria falls unconscious. The suffering mother could no longer take the the son’s act of separation, of disconnection.
When Arturo returns home, begging to be accepted again, to be re-connected to the family, Miguel angrily drives him away. It is only the mediation of the mother that moves Miguel to take back his brother. The touching moment ends in an embrace between the two brothers.
In the end, the family is connected as one. Maria walks to the plow, rests her face on the wooden handle, and takes a handful of soil, slowly letting it fall from her hand. The final image has become the quintessential representation of Biyaya ng Lupa. But more than that, Maria’s act gets her spiritually closer to Jose, who used to work with the plow and whose life was connected to the land.
Connection makes the family. Bruno, the nemesis, plays his role as the villain to the hilt, attempting to wreak havoc, to destroy the connectedness of Jose’s family. But, in the end, it is connection that triumphs. Conflict and connection co-exist in Biyaya ng Lupa. Drama is not built on conflict alone. Connection is equally important. There is drama in characters attempting to connect, disconnect, and re-connect. And in the process, the viewer, who is witness to these humane attempts, empathize with the characters. There lies the secret of Biyaya ng Lupa. No wonder it still touches the heart.
By Clodualdo del Mundo, Jr.
Anak Dalita (1956): A Story of Poverty and Hope
The Philippines is capable of competing with the rest of Asian Cinema. Manuel de Leon knew this when he attended the 1954 Asian Film Festival. To meet this challenge – to be at par with the rest of Asian Cinema – LVN in 1956 produced Anak Dalita, with de Leon appointing Avellana to direct the film. Writing the screenplay was Rolf Bayer, with short story writer Estrella Alfon and critic T.D. Agcaoili as story consultants.
De Leon took his chances on two things in the making of the film: for one, he cast Tony Santos and Rosa Rosal in the leads. Up till then, Santos had been relegated to secondary roles, usually playing the lead actor’s best friend. He was not mestizo, unlike Jaime de la Rosa with his dashing look, or Mario Montenegro whose sharp features belied his dark skin. In other words, Santos was far from glamorous; indeed he looked purely Filipino. Rosa Rosal, on the other hand, was known for her roles as villainess – the wicked princess, the scheming vixen, the hateful stepmother. In those days, the cast had no box-office appeal whatsoever, but Avellana was looking for rawness of portrayal. Apart from the casting, de Leon’s other gamble was the material itself. The film was a serious drama, with neither songs nor laughs. Francisco Santiago’s kundiman, Anak Dalita, although well-known, was too melancholic. Nevertheless, the project pushed through, thanks to the filmmakers’ determination to make a thoroughly unique film.
What is instantly notable is the film’s use of Intramuros, the historic city that was ruined during the Second World War. From the very first frame, it is obvious that the film was shot outside the studio. It is in this squatters’ nest that the story, a journey from poverty to hope, takes place.
Vic (Tony Santos) is a war veteran, who returns from Korea proudly bearing the badge of courage as a war hero. But a happy homecoming it is not – his mother dies in his arms, his war heroism is met by indifference, and squalor sits all around him. His sole companion is Tita (Rosa Rosal), a bar girl unashamed of her profession – “Napupudpod din ang sapatos ko, nagpapapawis din ako” (My shoes, too, get worn out; I sweat just as much as anyone else). Also with them is Ipe (Vic Bacani), Tita’s adolescent brother who, having grown up in the harsh realities of Intramuros, had long since lost his naiveté.
What future is there for a war veteran with one useless arm? Is a good heart enough for a prostitute to get by with? “Hindi naman maaring palagi na lang tayong maralita… kinakailangan ding mabuhay tayo nang mariwasa” (We can’t be poor forever… things have to get better), Vic tells Tita. The bar owner Carlo (Joseph de Cordova) has the answer: “Isa lang ang layunin ng tao sa mundo… pera” (Man lives only for one purpose… money).
The opportunity to make money comes with the arrival of a broken sculpture of the Blessed Mother. Father Fidel (Vic Silayan) brings the damaged item to be fixed for shipping to Hong Kong . Seeing the sculpture is hollow inside, Carlo comes up with a scheme – to slip thousands of dollars inside the statue, and safely smuggle it out of the country. The sculpture, a symbol of counsel and hope for many, becomes the bringer of good fortune Vic has desperately been hoping for.
In the end, good ultimately triumphs. Unbeknown to anyone, Tita takes the money from the statue, and stashes it on the wall of the Intramuros cathedral. Vic subdues Carlo, who falls off, money scattering into the wind. Yes, faith does eventually prevail - “sa tunay na pananampalataya at pag-asa” (with true belief and hope) – Father Fidel says with finality. Even Carlo, at his final breath, expresses his regret – “Nagsisisi ako, padre… kung ang salaping ito’y makatutulong sa mahihirap, tanggapin ninyo, padre…” (I’m sorry, Father… if this money will help the poor, take it…).
Anak Dalita is hardly Avellana’s first feature; at that time he had already directed more than forty films. Avellana was at the peak of his career; his control of the film is evidence of a master filmmaker. The mise en scène is simple, the direction economical, the camerawork controlled. Avellana’s style is akin to that of neorealism. Often his shots linger, not spliced into the shot-reverse- shot that is a strong Hollywood convention.
From the very first frame of the film, the authenticity of Intramuros is instantly felt. People swarm about, children play, women gossip while one breastfeeds her child, a barber goes about his work – these images are far from what we would normally see in studio-shot films. It is a big step that Avellana and Manuel de Leon undertook for Anak Dalita. Seeing the destitution plaguing Intramuros, the filmmakers resolved to bring the film to life in this environment. The problem, however, is whether the filmmakers did actually understand the real issue. Vic and Tita are characters living right smack in the middle of this squalor, numbered among the touted children of poverty. How are these people to be freed from their indigence? Carlo’s way is not the answer. Father Fidel holds the key to their deliverance – “Ang pananalig ay nanggagaling sa tunay na pananampalataya at pag-asa… ipagpaubaya natin sa panahon ang paglutas ng suliraning it” (Faith comes with true belief and hope… leave it to time to heal our troubles). And that is what happens in the film. By the end of the movie, Father Fidel announces that a settlement has been established for the poor folk of Intramuros. Reality tells a different story, however. Forty years hence, the cathedral stands strong and proud, yet poverty still abounds.
I am not attempting to disparage the film Avellana and Manuel de Leon made. Anak Dalita is a landmark film in the history of Philippine Cinema. It won the Golden Harvest Award in the third Asian Film Festival. And facing life with hope in our hearts is hardly a bad thing. But how long must the children of poverty wait?
Badjao (1957): Bridging the Gap between Land and Sea
“Sisisid ako hanggang sa pusod ng dagat. Higit na maalindog si Bala Amai kaysa sa pinakamalaking perlas na bughaw” (I shall dive into the deepest ocean. Bala Amai is far lovelier than the largest blue pearl), Hassan (Tony Santos) tells his fellow Badjao clansman, Asid (Leroy Salvador). Hassan would defy anything to follow his heart. When he weds Bala Amai (Rosa Rosal), a woman from another tribe, not only is Asid incredulous, Hassan’s father also renounces him – “Hindi na kita anak! (You are no longer my son!)”
Time passes and Bala Amai perceives in her husband a longing for the ocean. The sea is too much a part of Hassan’s life. In one scene, Bala Amai wakes from a bad dream to find Hassan no longer in bed with her. She gets up to find him. We see her in the background as she steps out of the house; in the foreground is Hassan, lying on a canoe, face to the sky. Here, Avellana’s mise en scène conveys to us just how much meaning the sea holds in the life of a Badjao.
Produced in 1957 after the success of Anak Dalita, Badjao is a clear example of Avellana’s style of mise en scène: he plays with foreground and background elements to convey, in a single shot, the connection between them. Other examples further illustrate this: Datu Tahil (Joseph de Cordova) and Ismail (Oscar Keesee) approach Hassan to convince him to dive for pearls. Hassan sits with his two visitors; behind him Bala Amai stands by the doorway, quietly listening. No amount of wealth will sway Hassan, though; his love for his wife and clan outweighs everything else. In another scene, when the datu’s men burn down Hassan and Bala Amai’s hut, the couple flees to their canoe by the seaside. While their hut blazes in the distance, Bala Amai gives birth right there beside the boat. In a single shot, we see the contrast between fire and water, violence on land and safety on the sea.
At first glance, Badjao is unique among Avellana’s works. The setting is not a familiar city or province, but an exotic locale – the seaside community of the Badjao and the land of the Tausug. While the film’s portrayal of these places and peoples are more likely inaccurate than authentic, its setting makes Badjao different from the rest of the director’s other works. Delving deeply into Badjao, however, we would be able to discern elements similar to Avellana’s other films. Evil stems from material things; in Avellana’s world, this means money or the want of it. Ismail, a merchant from the lowlands, comes to the community, intent on buying large blue pearls. Ismail is dazzled by the beauty of the pearls; Datu Tahil, likewise, by the lure of money. Because of this, the datu is unable to see clearly the rights of the Badjao people to the sea. But typical of a villain in an Avellana film, in the end the antagonist undergoes a turnabout of character for the better. There are similarities between Datu Tahil and the character Carlo of Anak Dalita. It is not surprising that Joseph de Cordova plays both villains. All three are of one nature: money is their king. For Carlo, money is the solution to all things; the more money you have, the less do problems plague you. And as for Datu Tahil, ten large blue pearls is the price for his consent to Hassan and Bala Amai’s marriage. In the end, though, he realizes the worthlessness of this kind of life. But unlike Avellana's other villains, Datu Tahil does not need to be in the throes of death to experience catharsis. He listens to Hassan and takes his words to heart -- and this becomes his redemption.
Redemption comes in the end, not only for Datu Tahil, but for Hassan as well. Hassan goes home to his Badjao clansmen. He offers them his infant child, and as with what happens at the beginning of the film, the infant goes through a test. The baby is tossed into the water. Hassan’s friend Asid, unable to restrain himself, jumps in to save the child. In this ritual, the baby passes the test -- and so does the father. Hassan once turned his back on his nature and his people; his return is his own redemption.
Revisiting Biyaya ng Lupa (1959)
Biyaya ng Lupa has all the earmarks of an LVN prestige film – Rosa Rosal and Tony Santos, stars of Anak Dalita and Badjao, are also the main actors; Joseph de Cordova, the resident villain of LVN studio and the nemesis in Anak Dalita and Badjao, also appears as the dreadful Bruno in Biyaya ng Lupa; Leroy Salvador, who has asppeared as a deaf veteran in Avellana’s Huk sa Bagong Pamumuhay, plays deaf again as the son, Miguel.. It should be noted, too, that an important writer was on board in all these prestige films – Rolf Bayer in Anak Dalita and Badjao; Celso Carunungan, a literary writer in his own right, wrote the story and was involved in developing the screenplay of Biyaya ng Lupa. Finally, the material itself was significantly different from the usual genres. Also, it should be noted that a leading director was at the helm of these special projects. In the case of Biyaya ng Lupa, it was Manuel Silos.
Biyaya ng Lupa focuses on Jose (Tony Santos) and Maria (Rosa Rosal), a newly-married couple and their dream of having a happy, simple family life. They are blessed with four children – Miguel, who is born deaf; Arturo, who grows to be a strong farm hand but has dreams of his own; Angelita, whose beauty befits a village maiden; and Lito, the precocious child. The simple life of this Filipino family is disturbed by Bruno (Joseph de Cordova). Forced by this unstable man’s desire to find another woman after the death of his wife and his desire to have children of his own, Bruno gets enmeshed in the accidental death of Carmen and he is hunted down by the townspeople of Sta. Monica. He retreats to the forest and returns later with a vengeance. His object of vengeance is Jose, because he is what he is not – a family man with a wife and children. Bruno exacts this vengeance through Angelita, whom he rapes. Jose’s life is greatly disturbed. He himself seeks vengeance, but it ends with his own death. Arturo, on the other hand, not wanting to be tied down to the land, asks for his share of the inheritance and decides to try his luck in the city. The rich villager to whom Maria pawned her land, attempts a scheme with Bruno, so that Maria won’t be able to repay her debt. Fortunately, the scheme is thwarted by the immediate help of the townspeople. In the meantime, Arturo, the prodigal son, returns. The loving mother welcomes her repentant son with open arms. Soon, the lansones is harvested and Maria and her children enjoy the fruits of their labor.
Biyaya ng Lupa opens with a long celebration, a seemingly unending celebration of the couple’s wedding. The couple rides a cart that is pulled by a carabao. The townspeople follow, dancing merrily. While people do a folk dance, the couple face their elders. Advice is given to the couple for a fruitful and happy marriage. The celebration sequence moves on to the nipa hut of the couple. They gaze at their land and make promises to each other. Maria acknowledges, “Ang tungkulin ko’y kakambal ng aking buhay.” Jose, on the other hand, promises, “Ang pagmamahal ko’y hanggang libing.” Succeeding scenes follow at the ricefield where Maria brings food for Jose; at the front yard where Maria waters the seedlings; and Jose running from house to house, informing the old midwife, and in another house, the couple’s godfather, that Maria is in labor. Maria gives birth to a baby boy, but the midwife is wondering why the baby doesn’t even give a whimper. The name “Miguel” is carved on the trunk of a tree. A series of dissolves of the children’s names follows – “Arturo,” “Angelita,” “Carmen,” when the mother’s lullaby is followed by a pause, then a shrill cry; a cross is carved beside the name “Carmen” suggesting that the baby died; then, the name “Lito” follows. The children are now grown-up – Lito, the youngest, does the early morning errand to buy bread from the neighbor’s store; Miguel, we now find out, is deaf; Arturo is the strong son; Angelita, the beautiful, young daughter.
Undoubtedly, this is a long introduction and no dramatic situation has even been set up. This is a clear violation of conventional storytelling, specifically of the Hollywood variety. After this long introduction of the formation of the family, typhoon hits the town and destroys the flowers of the lansones trees. Nature displays its power, not sparing even a nice, God-fearing family. This is the first manifestation of conflict in the story. Is this going to be a man-versus-nature story? Apparently not, because nature remains detached in the succeeding scenes. However, we meet the villain in the story in the person of Bruno. This character, quite interestingly, is not naturally bad. The townspeople suspect that he killed his wife. Later events conspire to move Bruno to live the image that the townspeople think he is – “Kung ‘yun ang paniniwala nila, hindi ko sila bibiguin. Magpapakasama na ako.” In a real sense, he goes against his nature and turns horrendously evil.
The conflict that the family confronts in Bruno runs the story. However, I could sense that that is not exactly everything that is happening in the film. The conflict is exciting, but it is not necessarily what is captivating in this film. Re-viewing Biyaya ng Lupa, we can see characters connecting to and disconnecting from each other. Now, it makes sense why the opening sequence is quite long – especially by Hollywood standards. Jose and Maria are celebrating their marriage, their connection. Their names are not accidental; this is a marriage made in heaven. Jose and Maria, echoing their biblical counterparts, are archetypes that form the ideal couple. We, as spectators, might as well celebrate the event with them. We feel their joy; we are one with them in celebration of this momentous occasion.
This idea of connection explains the small, loving gestures that are so captivating in this film. Maria’s small gesture of kissing Lito when she wakes him up, or her loving caress to wake up Arturo, her soft kiss to wake up Angelita, and Angelita’s sweet smile to her mother – these small gestures suggest a connection, a bond among the members of this loving family.
Touching is an attempt at connection. Miguel, the deaf son, becomes fond of Gloria, the beautiful, young woman at the store. Miguel signs to connect with Gloria, shakes her hand, and in a later scene, they embrace. The morning after the typhoon, Jose is devastated. The lansones flowers are scattered on the ground. Years of hard labor has gone to waste; everything now is insecure. When Lito walks past him, Jose fails to greet his son, a sign of disconnection. Of course, the son wonders and sits beside the father to inquire, to establish connection. Until finally, Lito’s childish questioning brings a smile on Jose’s face and he ruffles the hair of the young boy. It is a simple gesture, but touching re-connects the father to his son.
There are scenes when a member of a family distances or disconnects herself/himself out of jealousy or anger. When this happens, they resort to the kiss to patch things up, to re-connect to each other, e,.g. Angelita and Lito’s little fight and Jose and Maria’s misunderstanding. The gesture of kissing is not foreign to anyone who has attempted to connect with a loved one; thus, the empathy is quite natural. The result, as far as the spectator is concerned, is being touched by being connected to the scene.
Jose and Maria’s family is a closely-knit one, a connected family. This connection is set up in the early scenes, quite easily as the small gestures look so natural. Thus, when tragedy hits any member of the family, the impact on us as spectators is equally great. The search for Angelita, who is raped by Bruno, acquires a certain urgency. When Jose finds Angelita and carries her back to the house, Maria, Miguel and Lito gather around her, to get close. Miguel blames himself for not coming home early to bring food to his father and brother at the rice field. Miguel sits alone under a tree, blaming himself for his sister’s fortune. Jose, seeing Miguel, gstures to Arturo to go to his brother to assuage his sadness. Arturo sits across Miguel, to keep him from being alone and lonely. A simple gesture, but the connection between the two brothers is palpable.
The encounter between Jose and Bruno ends tragically. Bruno shoots Jose and kills him on the spot. The mise en scene is inspired. The screen is virtually divided into two levels – the shooitng occurs on the upper half of the screen; below, we see Miguel, crossing the screen, unaware of the burst of gunfire. His deafness disconnects him from the tragic event that ends fatally for his father. Later, Miguel carries the lifeless body of his father home. He meets his mother and tries to explain that their father is gone. A hearing person would find difficulty explaining the loss of a loved one. What more for a deaf one?
Arturo’s story is an example of disconnection. He is enamored by what seems to be the lucky fortune of a fellow villager in the city. He desires to leave the village – ”Ayokong maging alipin ng lupa habang panahon,” he explains to his mother. Maria gets the bamboo coin bank that she has been saving for each of her children, caresses the bamboo, knowing fully well that breaking it would mean separation, disconnection. Still later, with his girlfriend in tow, Arturo comes back, not to connect with the family, but to even sever his ties more fully. Arturo asks for his share of inheritance from the land. Maria, the suffering mother, pawns the land to the rich villager, gives Arturo what he needs, and when the son with his city girlfriend leaves, Maria falls unconscious. The suffering mother could no longer take the the son’s act of separation, of disconnection.
When Arturo returns home, begging to be accepted again, to be re-connected to the family, Miguel angrily drives him away. It is only the mediation of the mother that moves Miguel to take back his brother. The touching moment ends in an embrace between the two brothers.
In the end, the family is connected as one. Maria walks to the plow, rests her face on the wooden handle, and takes a handful of soil, slowly letting it fall from her hand. The final image has become the quintessential representation of Biyaya ng Lupa. But more than that, Maria’s act gets her spiritually closer to Jose, who used to work with the plow and whose life was connected to the land.
Connection makes the family. Bruno, the nemesis, plays his role as the villain to the hilt, attempting to wreak havoc, to destroy the connectedness of Jose’s family. But, in the end, it is connection that triumphs. Conflict and connection co-exist in Biyaya ng Lupa. Drama is not built on conflict alone. Connection is equally important. There is drama in characters attempting to connect, disconnect, and re-connect. And in the process, the viewer, who is witness to these humane attempts, empathize with the characters. There lies the secret of Biyaya ng Lupa. No wonder it still touches the heart.
