Monday, April 30, 2018

'Nine' & 'Wolves'

Completely went over my head to share this here: Our chapbook, released last January. In a week's time, we will officially no longer be "The Silliman fellows." God, what a wonderful two weeks those were. I truly have nothing but happy memories of my time there. Here's the link to our batch's chapbook, via the Silliman University website:
http://su.edu.ph/academics/national-writers-workshop/.

About the title: During one of the sessions, J. Neil Garcia, ever the verbose diva (am saying this of course with much love), said, "This is so germane!" And 'round the room, you could feel eyes widen with amusement and almost hear laughs being stifled. There's your story.

And another thing: Yes, I was a fellow for fiction, so it was really great for me to have these two poems below critiqued by Krip Yuson during one of the one-on-one mentoring sessions. My comeback to poetry, as it were.

*     *     *     *     *

Nine


Nine meant bedtime,
but we were stuck to the screen,
as the second plane struck
steel and metal skeleton, and glass
and paper and misplaced lipstick
rained on cabs and clueless tourists.
The same clips in every channel:
paused, rewound, zoomed,
father chiming in, mother silent
beside me on the couch, her stitching
idle on the parquet. No flipping over
to cartoons, or racy music videos
my cousins shared in secret,
or animals photographed from safari trucks.

The next day bore the smell
of new memory, a shift in language and gait,
the image imprinted on every front page:
a pair of smoking towers, a burst of flame,
the shadow of a man suspended midair.
Father could be the man:
afternoon coffee, a beard, no religion,
a heart attack in nine years.
Or me: too young and feebleminded
to understand coffee or religion,
but smart enough to know
I'd break his heart in nine years,
bedtime with a nameless lover,
broke, unphotographed.

The next evening I slept soundly,
while my parents took their places
on the couch, reporters blaring
from the idle screen. The next evening,
they told me to join them;
the next evening, there was only the sound
of my growing hunger for photographs
thrust between size-nine text.

*     *     *     *     *

Wolves

"Here is the Ossorio that fascinated me most... his vanity ego, his 'Catolico Cerrado' guilt over his sexual preference, his desire to break free of his past and prevailing artistic convention... In his memoir of the Victorias period, Ossorio makes mention of young male assistants who helped him paint the ['Angry Christ'] mural."
--Floy Quintos on painter Alfonso Ossorio.


He believes there are wolves
in the woods of Victorias, howling
dissonant melodies late at night.
I tell him, there are no wolves
this side of the world, only lovers
flinching at the slightest creak of the door,
hands ready to pretend they are tired
from washing dishes all day.
Gazing at the outline of his lips,
the slight dip down his delicate nose,
I tell him, go back to sleep, go back
to dreams. His hands are cold
against mine, skin rubbing against skin,
musk mixing in the dark. I tell him,
tomorrow you will finish those hands
tired from days of shaping mountains,
sky, pasture, the perfect arc of man's rib.
Tomorrow, a kiss so quiet, a twirl
of dancing tongues, a song
of words long forgotten.

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Screen Log 10: Never Not Love You; The Disaster Artist; The Post; The Florida Project; Molly's Game

"The Florida Project."

I loved the new Jadine movie NEVER NOT LOVE YOU. Wasn't initially convinced the ending was the best fit, but more and more grew to see it as an excellent editorial, narrative, stylistic choice. The lighting, the mood setting, the establishment of atmosphere in this movie was marvelous. And the bent towards silence I really loved, how this film made mumblecore very Filipino. Antoinette Jadaone's focus on intimacy really shone through, which reminded me: Finally a Jadaone movie that deserves a spot alongside "That Thing Called Tadhana," especially after her string of not-so-great work including "You're My Boss" and "Love Me to the Stars and Back" (yeah, shoot me on that second one).

How indelible is James Franco in THE DISASTER ARTIST? I started watching the movie, but felt sleepy at around the 50-minute mark, so decided to take a nap. And then I continued the movie in my dream, Franco's performance all accurate in it. His performance, in fact, makes the movie, which I'm still not convinced deserved all those spots it snagged in those best-of-the-year lists.

Now that I've seen THE POST, I can finally say I've seen all of this year's Oscars Best Actress nominees, and that Meryl Streep would have been a totally deserving winner for this sublime, understated performance. Look at her, turning defeat and insecurity into power, word by word, gesture by gesture. Surprisingly there was no Steven Spielberg-ian--a.k.a. very, very sentimental--ending, but many sequences throughout this film caught me unawares and had me in tears. Reminded me why once upon a time I dreamed of becoming an ace journalist. Many sequences, however, also felt too directed: the block-y movement, the too-neat editing, the scoring, Carrie Coon's moment with the telephone, even Sarah Paulson's speech.

Richard Brody said THE FLORIDA PROJECT is as artificial as the magical kingdom it contrasts with its realist story. Anthony Lane praised the movie, on the other hand. Me, I thought the kid was too much--I mean, she's good, the actress, but the kid character, goodness, if that kid crossed my path, I'd attack her. The mothers, though, were really what pulled me into the story. Poverty in America isn't at all like poverty in the Philippines. Over there you get to live in motels, eat waffles and ice cream, have a tub to bathe in--and still be poor. Not quite sure about the ending, though. On the one hand, I thought it maintained that child's-perspective story by giving it a child's-perspective quasi-resolution. On the other hand, just felt like a cop out.

I've always rooted for Jessica Chastain ever since I "discovered" her back in the summer of 2012, not long after her grand breakthrough moment with "The Tree of Life," "The Help" and "Take Shelter." I still believe she was robbed of the Oscar for "Zero Dark Thirty" (good riddance, J-Law), and that she should have had a third nomination for "A Most Violent Year." But MOLLY'S GAME is just "Miss Sloane" part deux, and we all know what a hot mess that was. "Molly's Game" is written and directed by Aaron Sorkin, and I don't know if that explains why the movie is so loud, so verbose, so in-your-face talkative. Many times I wanted the voice-over to just shut down because it's violating the "show, don't tell" rule. Thank goodness Chastain didn't squeak past Meryl at the Oscars, because then I would have surprised myself crying foul over the injustice of it all. Chastain needs better, fresher roles now. (God, can't believe I just typed that.) And the nerve of this movie to drag Arthur Miller's "The Crucible" into the fore.