On November 5, “Lakambini”, Arjanmar Rebeta’s “metadocu fiction” on Gregoria de Jesus, widow of Andres Bonifacio and later, wife of Julio Nakpil, opened in theaters. Citing the film, Bishop Pablo Virgilio David of Caloocan wrote that, “for me, the most powerful moment in the part I watched was not the uprising, nor even Bonifacio’s death — but a quiet scene. Oryang hears in 1935 that Aguinaldo has lost the presidential election to Manuel Quezon. She chews slowly, looks out not to a battlefield but to memory, and spits — not in anger, but in vindication. And she whispers a line from Scripture: ‘Walang nalilihim na hindi mabubunyag.’ Nothing concealed will not be revealed.”

With the release of this film it can be said that the entire Bayaniverse saga of three films, which recently culminated with “Quezon” (which reduced the Quezon-Aguinaldo contest to mudslinging), has been superseded. In the public imagination at least, a central preoccupation of the saga was its shifting portrayal of Emilio Aguinaldo, who began as a ruthless caudillo in the first two films, only to end up a pitiful has-been in the last; yet this fleeting moment of grace, whether intended or not, has been set aside yet again–-for now. The latest film certainly invited its fair share of controversy; now that we’ve all been there and done that, is that it?

It won’t because “Quezon” itself ended with a teaser in its credits–a prospect, if not of a surprise fourth installment in the saga, then of the possibility of the next film being the first in a newer saga, starting with what is widely expected to be, a look at the life and era of Ramon Magsaysay.

The culmination of Bayaniverse and the discussions that surrounded it brings up questions that deserve answers. Who, or what, is the audience for historical films? What is the role of facts in historical fiction? What is the role of the historian in fictitious explorations of the past? Are we a nation that still appreciates satire? Does the integrity of the artist come at the expense of the standards of the community? And what comes next?

Who’s sense and sensibility?

I confess I never watched “Luna” because I believed at the time, and continue to believe, that the creator of the work, figuratively speaking, has blood on his hands. Whether this was intentional or not is irrelevant; what is, is that the film helped create and foster a cultural conditioning that became a factor in propelling Rodrigo Duterte to power.

In the end the director tried to spell out his vision both for leaders and followers and used the term “confirmation bias,” which is defined as “the tendency to search for, interpret, favor, and recall information in a way that confirms or supports one’s prior beliefs or values,” to disown the popular perception of his work. But I do believe that the term is, indeed, a key to understanding the manner in which “Quezon” struck a chord with viewers, though this time instead of disowning it, Jerrold Tarog embraced it and utilized it.

If “Luna” can be said to have come in the twilight of cinema as mass entertainment, then “Goyo” was created in the infancy of the new, fundamentally middle-class, streaming-is-king ecosystem that replaced it. As for “Quezon”, delayed by the pandemic and a need for funding–-it eventually required the help of Liza and Irene Marcos (see the credits) and grants from government–appeared in theaters just when they are being systematically repurposed in the malls as eateries or additional shopping spaces, because movies aren’t mass entertainment anymore.

As director Jose Javier Reyes has bewailed (between “Luna” and “Quezon” the price of movie tickets doubled), “We have lost completely the D and E markets who used to watch Philippine movies. We only have now the B and C1 markets watching movies…Philippine cinema patronage is a middle-class activity. Nawala na po yung masa.” He underscored this when he actually watched “Quezon”, and asked, “Why are there more people watching the Sinesilip movies than an ambitious epic of historical note?”

The answer comes from Bart Guingona who described it as a “cynical post-modern take on Philippine politicians reflecting our own present-day political climate,” and loved it for that reason.

This film fundamentally appeals to a subset of society, the new middle class (one different from the old middle class born in the Magsaysay era and whose apotheosis was in Edsa; it started going into terminal decline with Edsa Dos as a new middle class, immune to the influence of traditional churches, clubs, and schools, and thus, not only not-grounded in civics but hostile to its aspirations).

Just as our politics hasn’t been about securing an electoral majority for the presidency for over a generation, today, box office success is measured by the capturing of niche and not mass markets, both in cinemas and streaming.

A film made by members of the middle class, and meant to be watched by a middle class audience, will be imbued by the biases of maker and audience. A film, however, tangentially about politics and more specifically about leadership, will rely on an unspoken but deeply held belief between the two of what constitutes these things.

As Randy David once observed, “The world is not really black and white. But polarization (of political views) allows people to feel that they have ideas when in actual fact, they only have biases.” And, I’d add, something else he wrote, “The middle class don’t believe in elections, they believe in coups. They are impatient”, dismissive of both the electoral process and the electorate as a gullible, corrupt or corrupting herd seduced by rhetoric, dazzled by popularity, perfect dupes for politicians who can only be duplicitous, and in cahoots with a population unwilling to listen to their betters–-the middle classes.

This is what passes for a moral lesson at the heart of this film and one, it seems, completing a trajectory that began with “Luna”, poster child of a new middle class impatience with the untidiness of politics yet heedless of its own shortcomings: Hyro P. Aguinaldo boiled it down to “”Luna” is rage, “Goyo” is vanity, “Quezon” is ego… Complexity demands accountability–-our least favorite national virtue.”

Fiction’s straw man

Sometimes the brightest illumination of the past can come from historical fiction. This was very much the case with Nick Joaquin’s splendid verse play, “El Camino Real” (1983) about Emilio Aguinaldo, which incidentally predated Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novel, “The General In His Labyrinth”, by nearly half a decade, and the PETA Musical “1896”, in which Emilio Jacinto is the main character. If you ever have the chance, read or attend the play and see the musical. The late, great Mike de Leon’s satirical mockumentary, “Bayaning Third World”, is a masterpiece of its kind; and most recently, Lav Diaz’s “Magellan” provided an interesting glimpse into the possibilities of historical fiction on film.

With the exception of Diaz, what they have in common, however, is a sympathy–-which is not the same as idolatry—for their subject. Thus the contrast between Robert Ball’s depiction of Thomas More in his play, “A Man For All Seasons” on one hand, and Hilary Mantel’s portrayal of him in “Wolf Hall” and the rest of her trilogy: the former a pillar of spiritual and moral integrity, the latter, a kind of medieval Catholic version of the Taliban. The difference? More is the protagonist in Ball’s play; he is the antagonist in Mantel’s novels. Created a generation apart, they are cultural artifacts of the times in which they were written.

Manuel Quezon has had the good fortune of being portrayed by three gifted actors. The first was the late Tommy Abuel in a TV production (an episode of “Alab ng Lahi”) around the time of the Quezon Centennial in 1978; a program which no one remembers but at the time, my father thought it was a fine portrayal of his father. More representative was an uncle’s summation–-bad film, worse acting–which suggests that even when he was within living memory, portrayals of Quezon could divide. For the post-Quezon generation, where he has essentially receded from living memory, he has been portrayed by Raymond Bagatsing with gravitas and now, most recently, by Jericho Rosales with panache (making an effort to recapture even the inflections of the real Quezon’s speech, the voice Locsin described, having heard it, as “half-shrill, compelling.”)

What contemporaries could provide would be the telling detail that could bring the formerly vivid back to life, at least momentarily. The film at certain moments comes close to grasping historical realities with cinematic shrewdness, for example where Leonard Wood tries to blackmail Quezon; set is it is, in a moment of interracial fraternization, it captures the reality of the colonial power dynamic, the trading in rumor and innuendo, the production and distortion of information, the use and abuse of informants which might be incomprehensible if it weren’t on exhibit to this day in hotel lobbies, where at any given moment you might find a militant walking out as a VIP of the ruling clique waddles in, both being guests of the U.S. or some other embassy, eager for information–-the coin of the realm.

The Manuel Quezon–John Gunther, an American journalist who wrote one of the most widely-read and thus, influential, profile of Quezon, borrowed an English politician’s quote, described the “defiantly fluid quality” of the actual man: “he is like trying to pick up mercury with a fork”—is merely a straw man in Jerrold Tarog’s work, in which he prefers to underscore a simpler image of Quezon as a chameleon.

This is fit for work because nuance would eliminate the comforting confirmation of biases the audience is supposed to delightfully discover. There cannot be anything here, for example, smacking of how the late Teodoro M. Locsin who’d observed Quezon as a young man, described him as “The man who seemed mainly composed of fire, charm and political cunning, whose nature and American justice tried to explain by saying that in him there were two elements, the white and the brown, with the white despising the brown and the brown hating the white,” who, moreover, “had made himself the leader of a similarly confused people, whom it was impossible—many said of him—not to love,.

All statesmen are, essentially, unknowable; to be knowable is to be vulnerable and politics is not an avocation for the weak. Here is a basic truth: to be a leader, you need followers; this, in turn, needs leaders and followers united on purposes. Otherwise you are a solitary individual marching in accompaniment to your own spotlight–-a crank.

Yet to understand the past we need to try to find and identify patterns based on the facts-–in history, at least. In fiction, it’s to make the fiction believable. So here is the problem of facts in fiction.The facts are few so let’s spend a minute listing them here. Frankly speaking, one of the few indisputable facts about Quezon in this film, is that he got the Tydings McDuffie Act passed into law, which is why we are an independent and sovereign nation today and not another Puerto Rico which to this day remains an American Commonwealth.

People can say Tydings-McDuffie was just a copy of the Hare-Hawes Cutting Act–if they think that, that’s their opinion; it’s not an empirical fact: a difference of only a few words, the argument used by the defeated backers of Hare-Hawes-Cutting, is misleading as anyone with experience in legislation will tell you. But the fact remains that Franklin D. Roosevelt never signed the Hare-Hawes-Cutting into law because it was rejected by the Filipinos, first in their own legislature and in the great showdown in the elections of 1933, which served as a referendum.

The Tydings-McDuffie Act, on the other hand, was approved by Filipinos and signed into law by Roosevelt. So that’s an objective fact and not subject to debate. Everything else, on the part of historians, or journalists, or Juan and Juana de la Cruz, is an interpretation, or an opinion, all of which any one of us is entitled to have precisely because we’re a free country.

And yet TBA studios insisted, “we wish to reiterate that the film is grounded in verified historical accounts, including President Quezon’s own autobiography and other reputable sources. While the film includes fictional elements for thematic purposes, the facts and details presented in the film are easily verifiable through public records, online research, or library resources.” This doubling-down is puzzling.

Whether specific details or particular stories were used, sourced from nonfiction sources, is beside the point in an exercise that was the creation of fiction; it is an intolerable and unfair burden to leave it to the viewer to sift through the whole thing (see Reynaldo V. Silvestre on the impossibility of attempting something similar with Nick Joaquin). Even an invitation to look at the sources is one only a few will do, with not even most of those who make the attempt, able or willing to even find the sources to start with.

And also, a creative exercise, a reimagining of the past, requires an interpretation; an opinion; a vision. It will necessarily be independent of, and even diametrically opposed to, the sources.

Rody Vera and Jerrold Tarog, for example, say they relied on Carlos Quirino’s “Paladin of Philippine Freedom” because it was the least hagiographic biography of the man; but this proves my point: you will take what you want regardless of the origin’s intention, because Quirino was one of the most passionate admirers of Quezon who ever lived-–and you can be sure he wouldn’t have recognized the two co-author’s takeaway from his work.

Another case in point: Rody Vera says this passage by Recah Trinidad struck him: “Quezon laid the groundwork and the precedence for the declaration of Martial Law and the establishment of dictatorship by Ferdinand Marcos in 1972.” That is a strong opinion, but as a fact, it’s weak. Here’s a fact: during World War II, when Quezon discovered an American general, Chynoweth, had imposed martial law in the Visayas, he had it immediately revoked when he reached the Visayas–-after giving the general a tongue-lashing. That this became Vera’s key is what happens when an interpretation is built on the quicksand of an opinion.

To state the obvious but the obvious always has to be said, what has become reasonably clear, over time, not least due to extensive discussions on “Quezon’s” two precursors, that the series is not a documentary; it is a work of fiction. It is, to be sure, historical fiction, and in this regard, it’s important to note that the film-maker himself has thoroughly addressed anything he needs to say about his work: “This film is a work of fiction based on facts. Liberties have been taken with the depiction of historical figures and the order of events. While historical accuracy is important, there are bigger truths about the Filipino nation that can only be reached by combining the real and the imaginary.” Jerrold Tarog imagined it, Rody Vera co-wrote it, and it is up to all of us to watch it-–or not.

Which brings us to the next question-–there is a repeated appeal to authority in the realm of history when the film isn’t history, it’s a work of fiction. So why this insecurity or desire to substitute one form of authority for another?

The marketer as apologist

The Israeli national security scholar Prof. Dan Schueftan put it best, “Most serious problems in life don’t have a solution… What you need to do, if you’re a realist, is combine damage control and the use of opportunity.” According to one powerful critique of the film, “Luna” by Lisandro Claudio, Jerrold Tarog insisted that “it is not our job to tiptoe around undiscerning viewers.” Yet there was, from the start, an acknowledgment that same folks who watch fiction take what unfolds on screen to be gospel truth. But with every problem lies an opportunity.

So the film, like every film in the saga, was marketed professionally and well: attention was made to cultivating historians with a following, not just as an exercise in segmentation, appealing to history nerds, but as an exercise in appealing to authority. If the ones promoting the film-–though they had nothing to do with writing or filming it—are historians, then it must be history.

Let me repeat. The problem of the historian in Filipino historical fiction on film, is that the role the film’s creator defined for them was not to be part of the creative process, but rather, to deploy their credibility as a shield for (the inevitable) criticism of the film to follow. Their purpose then, is damage control-–damage to their profession and comprehension of the different facets of the past.

I understand that historians, even those actively involved in promoting or supporting the film, were unwelcome into the creative space of the director, too. Which, of course, was correct, again, considering what the creators set out to do.

When it came out, people at once asked me if I had anything to do with the film; to be precise, the answer is yes and no. I was asked and gave some answers and links to questions of campaign design and appearances and style; it gives me satisfaction that you can see some echoes of it in the production design of Monica Sebial. But on anything of substance I was not consulted-–nor, considering what the creators set out to do, should I have been. It has given me the freedom to say what I think with no caveats.

A film can’t be separated from the culture in which it was created. You have, on one hand, the autonomy of the artist-–accountable to no one but himself, owing no one an explanation—and on the other, the basic expectations of a society where, for example, common courtesy dictates at least a dialogue with those whether by affinity or consanguinity feel differently about the subject of a film than its makers.

A choice was similarly made to flout society’s expectations of dialogue; when it turned out that even a pro forma approach strikes many in our society as reasonable and not limiting, the producers decided to double down on asserting two things: first the creative impunity of the artist, and second, the historical credentials of the work–to the extent fiction is downplayed for a rather dubious assertion of facts. That this would invite controversy and, indeed, resulted in controversy was embraced by the film’s creators, funders, and marketers alike. P.T. Barnum’s ageless dictum, that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, was obviously their creed.

Still, and surprisingly, a certain amount of unease seems to be haunting historians who have chosen not just to use the release of the film as a “teaching moment”-–which anyone could do–but to do so as hired hands-–significantly, precisely as “marketing consultants,” and not historical consultants involved in the making of the movie.

They have been hired to give historical credence where none is due-–because undeserved—to historical fiction, all the while declaiming that they do not endorse the objectionable aspects of the film. But by being hired by its makers their endorsement cannot be qualified. I leave it to the historians concerned if this isn’t an irredeemable conflict of interest (implicity endorsing, as it does, the particular historical choices or lack of them, of the creator, yet not having had anything to do with those choices).

They have embraced it, they have pursued the marketing of the film with enthusiasm; they have reveled in the brief flash of fame and profited from the effort. They cannot, and should not, be divorced from it.

The satire switcheroo

In contrast to the naivité of historians is the hard-nosed realism of the film’s makers. All three films started with an advisory that while based on historical persons and events, the films are first and last, fiction. But only this movie came with additional fine print–and only afterwards, in a heated Q&A–when the director said that oh, it’s also satire.

As a writer I respect and expect precision in language. So here’s what satire means: “the use of humor, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticize people’s stupidity or vices, particularly in the context of contemporary politics and other topical issues.”

Whether good or bad-–perhaps the more appropriate choices are, whether effective or a failure—satire is a question of taste; and in matters of taste there is little left to dispute. But it is important to underline the fact that facing uncomfortable reactions, the makers decided to turn themselves into a moving target.

Satire was not top of mind, either for creators or those engaged to market and explain the work. This is revealed by the official study guide not including, anywhere, in it, any reference whatsoever to “satire,” “satirical,” “farce” or even “allegory”-–concepts that are important, as the creator of the film himself claimed, to understanding the film.

Important because a problem of course in these politically-correct times, is the growing fear in the creative sector that satire is something Filipinos neither appreciate nor understand anymore. That some did, upon watching this film, shows you all is not lost; but unless you’ve lived under a rock for the past decade, no creative person in this country could possibly be ignorant of the concern over whether this is already a lost art form.

Is this fiction, or is it a documentary? It cannot be both. And isn’t it satire? It can be fiction and satire, true. And satire is something important in its own right. Why then, can’t it be comfortable in its own skin? Why must it constantly change its spots-–like a chameleon, to find the right protective coloration depending on the argument at hand? It’s because the public expected the saga to conclude with a biopic but instead, it ended as satire, with no one-–not the marketers, not even the cast, certainly not the public—being told what to expect. And that’s where I think a legitimate and serious discussion is needed.

What comes next?

What I enjoyed more than the film were the reviews and even editorials that it inspired, from what I believe was the most penetrating-–an anonymous Reddit review—to the opinions and reflections of writers ranging from Ian Rosales Casocot to Zach Yonzon to Edmund Dennis Ladaw, Philbert Dy, and social media posts by Liza Diño-Seguerra.

With the passage of time it will be interesting if my hunch about this film holds true. Those who hated Quezon, hate him; those who admired him, remain the same; those looking for escape, were entertained; and the credulous came away from the movie believing what they watched was literally the past and not fiction-–in other words, they are who they are.

Summarizing her own reaction, Marian Pastor Roces remarked, that she tried to point out “That today is a totally different world and whatever we might pick up from the iconoclastic film will not exactly assist in problem-solving today. And that [Quezon] did not invent impunity as political form (but he made for great political theater). It was emergent well before his time.” Reflecting on this she dryly observed, “From what I gather, I didn’t come through to the audience.” Because it isn’t what either the film makers or the audience wanted to hear. Confirmation bias at work.