Ang Nawawala (Marie Jamora, 2012) – Not Really A Review: A Rambling/Practice

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There’s so much warmth and past and memories and color and coolness and celebration and heartaches in one serving that you’re sucked into the movie’s many charms and pains, into its strands of sequences and makes you ask, “where is The Strangeness now?,” and makes you miss the old Cubao and your turntable and the vinyl records your now wasted aunt who’s turning 55 this year bought when she still spoke at rallies decades back as a student leader in FEU, and you were still a boy, and when you were a little older she gave you a few albums: FOGHAT, Queen’s A Night at the Opera, Jesus Christ Superstar, Deep Purple’s Machine Head, and you played those big discs, stacked them up, put them in carton boxes, until a big flood caused by one hell of a tropical storm came and destroyed them and suddenly you couldn’t play Jeff Beck with the Jan Hammer Group Live album anymore, couldn’t re-imagine lighting candles in the living room and playing Within You, Without You in the cassette tape player, couldn’t dream of puppy love, because you also got kicked out of college and you had to babysit your cousins (and draw naked figures using charcoal on the walls of your cramped room near the restroom) as self-punishment, your space lit by an incandescent bulb and introduced by that drying smell of turpentine and gas, and the Mabait would peek once in a while to plan to steal in the really dirty kitchen a piece of some nights’ leftover fried fish, and your world was so disorganized and your life was close to a mess morphing into a pauper’s at night, and your future was uncertain, but you never had the same trauma as Gibson’s, but you had bits of bullying from your relatives which could be worst than what the movie’s lead character had, and you hadn’t seen Hi-Fidelity yet, or any Godard film, or Kashiwahara’s Magandang Gabi Sa Inyong Lahat, and at times the next day could be horrifying but you kept a little bit of that coolness in you and you had some cheap MP3 player to keep you sane, some termite-bitten pages of stacks of old, dog-eared books, and that somehow kept you alive, now you’re far better than you were during those years and each day you’ve turned wiser, turned more patient of the world’s whipping, more certain of your importance, more self-assured, that no matter how many buckets of tears you shed after watching beautiful movies like this, you’d never feel dehydrated in spite of the day’s heat and the film’s ‘well-placed intensities’ because inside you there’s a, uh, well, that never dries up.

Originally posted on Facebook in 2017

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