Menthol-Guy

About pinoy movies

It’s such a shame that I have only watched a number of Filipino movies in my entire life. Let me recall the names.

• Do-Re-Mi (Donna, Regine, Mikee): I know, the movie sounds corny. But my sisters loved it back when I was a cute little boy, very cute boy in fact.
• Madrasta: My first movie to watch on theatre, since we treated two of my cousins from States (Maan and Michael). We watched in in Meycauayan, in Aliw. LOL.
• That Richard-Angel movie where they had kissing scenes on a lighthouse. I forgot the title but it’s not really good (for me, it’s AWFUL); my bestfriend insinuated the very idea of watching it, and needless to say, I am just plain interested. And it was a bore.
• Moments of Love: I watched it in the bus from Los Banos to Cubao. Coolness.
• Bikini Open - LOL at Francine Prieto.
• All About Love - While watching the movie, I somehow miss the conventional Angelica Panganiban back then. Heh.
• Chopsuey: The most splendid, most - how-could-I-put-this? - touching and probably one of the best Filipino movies I’ve ever seen. Dimples Romana really had a knack on acting, especially when she delivered her Chopsuey speech (I think I have a post for this movie: HERE). I watched it at Cinema One, a cable channel.

And just yesterday, the movie with Angel Aquino and Ara Mina and Carlos Morales and all (I searched it and it’s LARO SA BAGA, lol). Angel Aquino acted so good, and so did Carlos Morales (which at first, no offense if ever you guys like this guy, didn’t look like an actor to me). Only Ara Mina’s role of some twangy Balikbayan, for me, put the movie down with her nonfluent English-speaking skills. But anyway, the story is downright touching - about some guy confused and wretched induced by the marriage and love-related arguments waged by his belligerent wife (and yes, the wife unsuccessfully cut his penis when he was sleeping - it was only a gash, though), and his family problems, his obsession with his mother (if I’m not mistaken - Angel Aquino’s role is a mother or a grandmother, since it flashed back scenes where his Mom used to give him a bath and he was peering a good eye on the breasts and all) and his drug abuse and all. I don’t know why it’s good: not that I can relate to the plot of the story or whatsoever, but I guess the acting and the harsh reality behind it made the movie biting and impressive.

I think those were the only Filipino movies I’ve watched in my entire life. And oh, that Angelu-Bobby movie about poor Bobby and rich Angelu and all that live-in stuff and in the end Angelu died with a tumor on her brain or something. I forgot the title, though. Movie titles always slip out of my mind.

Heimlich-maneuvered

Dad gave me this magazine, Poets & Writers, straight from the shelves of Booksale - probably a gift towards the book he borrowed from me (William Gibson’s “Pattern Recognition”, which he loved so much). I really would like to thank him for the extra mile of thoughtfulness and for - at last - outwardly accepting the very knowledge that irritates my Mom: that his youngest son, despite his monkish and solitary existence in his room this vacation (and his way of sneaking cigarettes inside his room), has this ounce of consciousness to dream of being a productive writer. Mom had been the stubborn shadow, the Nursing advocate, but little by little her support grew to a point where she told me that I’m free to pick my own course as long as I’d buy him a mansion (which was what I promised her probably eight years ago, riding on our owner en route to somewhere, then we accidentally came across Villa Rica’s mansion and told her the promise. Not even a hollow block was funded as of the moment).

Regrettably, the very magazine he gave me “Heimlich-maneuvered” my extinguished depressions and such thoughts about the uncertainty of a career I had not even planned, had not even stomached. For one, my course (which is absolutely out of the context with creative writing) is obviously not helping me to become a writer; it is teaching me more of the economic side of things about farmlands and barns teeming with carabao shit. And also, in my own point of view, my erratic way of writing is still prevalent up to this moment - I rarely use has, have, had not because of confusion but with the fear of committing venial grammatical mistakes (I welcome criticisms so much, so please, MTV, pimp my post). I try as much as possible to simplify a sentence to avoid the use of such; as long as the thought remains, of course. Also, the magazine’s approach to me seemed to be mocking: it flashed articles, novel and essay excerpts with the content faces of its authors - mostly twenty-something and pursued a Masteral degree in Fine Arts, Major in Creative Writing at some college/university in the States. Not really mocking: more of challenging the aspiring authors and writers out there to follow their steps, make a manuscript for two years, polish it for seven months or so, and find a publisher. Lastly, it seems like, as months go by, that the dream is becoming improbable.

I don’t know, I don’t know: the usual “come-what-mays” may answer my questions and fill the voids for the moment.

And this post is way too formal than I have ever dreamed of.