The true story of Andres Bonifacio, a man who rose as a leader in the fight against the Spanish oppressors, and would gain the enmity of even those fighting for the same cause.

Review

Bonifacio: Ang Unang Pangulo, a historical drama full of passion, plays differently against other films from different genres for there must be painstaking research involved to portray a realistic depiction of the grand narrative to the minute details of set design and character mannerisms. Thankfully, the movie does its job well consistently and even excels in bringing a terrific experience in the cinema.

Opening with the execution by garrotte of the Gomburza (an acronym denoting the surnames of the Filipino priests Mariano Gomez, José Burgos, and Jacinto Zamora), a grim atmosphere has been laid out through an enriching interplay of delicate lighting, powerful score and a succinct screenplay, giving the three priests distinct personalities in just less than ten minutes. With the introductory scene alone, the film has already set its standards high. The film then brings us to the present-day, in the gymnasium of a Catholic high school with a typical scene of bullying. A graduating student with altruistic values, as played by Daniel Padilla, steps in. It promises an interesting storyline of parallel values but as the saying goes, “promises are meant to broken.” Together with two other students and a curator of a museum dedicated to Bonifacio, they uncover history through documents, to support the accuracy of the claims the film presents. They serve not only as unnecessary narrators but also represent the inspired youth and dedicated historians, as expendable anchors to reality. There is not much progression with these one-shots as they interweave and later interrupt much of the dramatic storytelling, breaking the inertia, and blemishing an already excellent biopic. (It is the intention of the reviewer to point this out early on so that the reader can opt to tune out these jarring moments, hoping to bring a greater appreciation of the film.)

On a certain level, Bonifacio: Ang Unang Pangulo is a symbiotic ménage à trois among Andres Bonifacio, played by a subdued Robin Padilla until the character goes in fits of rage and control is lost; Gregoria ‘Oryang’ de Jesus, suited by Vina Morales, whose story relevance grows in time; and the country, particularly the nation’s persecuted masses. The first part cements their common love for justice and social upheaval. Further tribulations in family affairs in the latter sections gave their love story an alluring kind of sadness as unfortunately; this has been Andres’s only rock in his untimely demise. For this layer alone, it already provides a compelling drama, the beef in the burger patty. This patty becomes heavier and juicier with the other meatier layers and astounding audio-visual elements that gives its distinguishing flavor.

The personal and historical highlights can be arranged to three chronological sets of discovery. Bonifacio’s active involvement in the movement stems from his spirit grown from the seeds left by the death of the Gomburza, and a fellow nationalist, Dr. Jose Rizal, exemplary enlivened by Jericho Rosales from line delivery to deft hand gestures. A beautifully lighted meeting between the imprisoned Rizal, radiating in blue hue, and Bonifacio, in orange, not only intensifies their opposing actions and philosophies but also foreshadows the first act’s end where Bonifacio steps up as the leader of a new movement set on a more violent approach to freedom. The endearing cinematography is also introduced with a uni-directional camera work zooming out from Rizal to a long table filled by intently listening members of La Liga Filipina, an early protoypical movement that failed to set off, signifying his influence and magnitude of his intellect. This is contrasted near the end of the act with a circular directionless round table discussion, stopping with Bonifacio, as he assumes responsibility, gaining power from the trust of his peers. This kind of camera trail to display the influence of a notable hero is again used with Aguinaldo prior to the third act as he draws much of his power from influence by his peers, illustrating a different Aguinaldo that is neither pure good nor demonic evil.

The first act culminates on natural daylight as the Katipunan emerges from the shadows of the caves of Montalban, where they are not just individual sources of light but now a force to reckon with. Interspersed with this scene, a digital vector animation of the myth of Bernardo Carpio is played, as an homage to the Filipino grassroots inspiration of Katipunan and also as a warning for the future Andres to face. The pattern of light encompassing not the characters’ personas, then progressing to break the monotonous dark atmosphere is a consistent flawless style, repeated throughout the next two acts, with the second leading to the iconic Sigaw sa Pugad Lawin (Cry of Pugad Lawin), which wages battles of life and death and not just mere propaganda for the minds.

For the final act, a well-choreographed night ambush, a quasi-climax that is a Pyrrhic victory in retrospect, gives the necessary energy for the painstakingly emotional yet horrifying death that comes to our hero whose only mistake is loving too much and being busy in seeking the light amidst the personal agendas who claim to seek the same. A reverse of the setup on light and dark further emphasizes the dreadful truth, with the reflection of the light from the moon punctuating the ironic somber ending. The third act may have ended in the past but its continuation in the present shows the results of the revolution. A well-illuminated world, as opposed to the foremost gloom in the initial scenes, is a product of the blood-drenched revolution that is not yet over. Soon after, the narration poses a question and some insights that would again boil down to the final scene of rising action that takes place in the heart of the revolution.

With the skillful mingling of chiaroscuro as part of its cinematography, fascinating marriage of screenplay and drama, subtle political machinations and societal factors trapping our forlorn hero, Bonifacio: Ang Unang Pangulo is a layered tragic love story to the country that will always be relevant in the age of revisionism. A good metric of this is how it is able to move individuals, people, a nation with or without the recognition of passion more than a century after offering an incomparable sacrifice.

The story of Gregorio ‘Goyo’ del Pilar, one of the youngest Generals during the Philippine-American War who fought in the historic Battle of Tirad Pass.

Review

Conceived as the second installment in an ongoing trilogy about the Philippine struggle for independence from American colonial power in the late 1890s, Jerrold Tarog’s sprawling Goyo: The Boy Generalpicks up pretty much right where his earlier Heneral Luna concluded. Indeed, the political and military ramifications of Luna’s execution at the end of that film hang heavy over the proceedings here. Consequently, some knowledge of the earlier work—and/or its historical context—seems like it would prove helpful for a better understanding of the Byzantine machinations set in motion by Goyo’s extensive dramatis personae, many of whom also featured in the previous film.
Goyo is unquestionably a handsomely mounted production, though perhaps that isn’t exactly surprising, considering it’s reportedly the most expensive Filipino film of all time. At any rate, Pong Ignacio’s versatile cinematography segues effortlessly from jittery handheld camerawork (for that “authentic” documentary feel) to swooping Steadicam and crane shots, not to mention some rousing aerial drone footage. Multi-hyphenate Tarog (who co-wrote, directed, edited and scored the film) cannily uses crosscutting and juxtaposition to heighten the impact of certain sequences. Then again, he sometimes indulges in frustratingly clichéd generic tropes. For example: On the eve of the climactic battle, we get a fairly uneventful montage of what the major characters are doing with themselves, which mostly consists of turning uneasily in their sleep or looking concernedly offscreen into futurity.

Tarog’s approach to the historical epic seems closer to the cinegenic sweep of David Lean, with just a smidgen of Terrence Malick’s rapturous attention to the natural world, than, say, Steven Soderbergh’s more unconventional Che Guevara biopic. Goyo paints an enigmatic, somewhat distanced (some might say unfocused) portrait of its titular figure, Gregorio “Goyo” del Pilar (Paulo Avelino), who rose to the rank of general at the ripe old age of 24. You mostly have to infer Goyo’s inner workings and motivations from his frequently inconsistent behavior, with a handful of PTSD-related flashbacks to provide requisite empathetic gravitas.
Tarog does light on an innovative way to feed us necessary backstory in the form of a rural theatrical production that humorously chronicles Goyo’s youthful exploits. And then there’s the sequence where Goyo has a vision of his own impending death while swimming at night in a river: The camera focuses on him floating underwater, lost in the murky depths of a studio water tank, framed in exactly the sort of way we’ve seen in a lot of recent films like The Shape of Water and A Cure for Wellness. Cinematic bodies of water typically stand in at a symbolic level for the unconscious, but here we’re given little in the way of psychological insight. This feels far more akin to unabashed mythmaking.

Sporadic narration from a peripheral character, Joven Hernándo (Arron Villaflor), Goyo’s “official” photographer, serves to counterpoint all the martial posturing with some philosophical ruminations on the nature of heroism. The script pays a lot of lip service to the difference between being a hero and being a soldier, which may or may not be synonymous with another distinction that gets a lot of mileage throughout the film: that between simply following orders and fighting for some exalted ideal, be it military honor or patriotism or “a noble death,” whatever that might be. It can get a little tricky construing these finely drawn lines, however, amid the fractious infighting between factions of the Philippine army on display here, not to mention a series of pretty pathetic military failures.
Tarog’s film goes surprisingly easy on the invading Americans, who, at least until the climactic battle, are mostly seen as distant, shadowy figures who pop up to blast away at the Filipino rearguard. Racial epithets in the dialogue are kept to an absolute minimum, the American soldiers are never vindictive or cruel, and the slogan “Drink Pabst beer” seen carved into a rock outcropping replaces the usual “Kilroy was here” graffiti. American colonial intentions are best summed up by General Otis’ (E. A. Rocha) dictum: “Surrender and be useful.” On the other hand, the refrain sounded on several occasions by revolutionary leader Mabini (Epy Quizon) sounds oddly self-defeating: “They are right to call us children.” Ultimately, then, for all its attention to historical detail, not to mention pictorial splendor, Goyo: The Boy General offers American audiences a puzzling, inconstant vision of the past.

Set during the Philippine-American war, a short-tempered Filipino general faces an enemy more formidable than the American army: his own treacherous countrymen.

Review

Amidst pacing problems, Heneral Luna manages to tell a compelling story – allegorical and timely to present day – supported by a fantastic script, an impassioned score, and inspired cinematography.

At first glance, one might mistake Heneral Luna as your run-of-the-mill historical biopic that showcases a hero of yore whose bravery and passion unite his people in the face of dastardly foreign invaders. Well, this is only partly correct. There are invaders, Heneral Luna (John Arcilla)is indeed fiercely brave and madly passionate, but there is no unity to be found amongst country men – only infighting, personal interests, and politicking.
Directed by Jerrold Tarog and with a script co-written by him, Henry Hunt Francia, and E.A. Rocha; Heneral Luna takes a different approach in telling the story of how we lost the battle and got occupied by the Americans. Taking cues from Oro, Plata, Mata; the movie deliberately puts the colonialists in the periphery, making them merely a backdrop whose presence stirred the pot. The real focus here is the tension, the inner turmoil, that brewed in the ranks of our so-called Filipino founding fathers. Heneral Luna is a tale of how a dissenting voice can get swept away and ultimately perish under a wave of egos and personal interest.
Carrying the weight of the story is the above stellar performance of John Arcilla in the title role of General Antonio Luna. Arcilla plays with the whole spectrum of emotions in his portrayal of the larger-than-life general. He is able to showcase the fierce, boisterous, and volatile man the general has been historically known to be, yet he is also able to flip the coin and show the passionate, sympathetic, and battle-weary softer side of the character. Here’s a man who rides head first screaming into battle just to rile up his troops’ morale, but at the same time he is a one who can share warm moments and some banter with his mother.  He is an antihero – the Wolverine of the Filipino insurrection.

One prime example of just how dynamic Arcilla’s portrayal can be is during this one scene involving a chicken vendor. Delivering virtually the same line of dialogue on two separate moments, Arcilla is able to convey anger bordering on madness at first and compassion nuanced with frustration soon after. It is truly his performance that propels Heneral Luna (and, sadly, his alone).
There isn’t much to be said about the rest of the cast of movie, which is a pity given that Heneral Lunaassembles quite an ensemble. You’ve got names like Joem Bascon, Alex Medina, Mon Confiado, Nonie Buencamino, Mylene Dizon, and even Ronnie Lazaro; but sadly none of the other performances stand out. Not that there are any weak performances, it’s just that none are able to keep up with the gravitas of John Arcilla’s Luna. Mon Confiado’s Emilio Aguinaldo seems more like a spineless weakling who hides behind his cohorts rather than a respected political foil; while Ketchup Eusebio’s Capt. Janolino, the leader of Luna’s killers, feels too forced as a villain scorned by the titular general. The closest character who can keep up with Luna’s onscreen presence is his equally proud contemporary,  Heneral Mascardo (Lorenz Martinez) – whose refusal to give in to Luna provides a tension-filled back-and-forth sequence in the middle of the film. Unfortunately, because of some jagged pacing, tension such as is this is not consistent throughout the movie.
This erratic pacing is felt most during the first act of Heneral Luna – where things play out very much like an oral history. Used as plot device to serve as the audience’s perspective, Arron Villaflor portrays journalist, Joven Hernando, who is tasked to interview the general. This frame narrative leads to various snippets that feature Luna’s patriotism: from an expertly-shot rowdy meeting with Aguinaldo’s cabinet to earlier battles against the Americans. Oddly, these scenes just feel lacking in connective tissue. Its pacing is too quick to really tie the storytelling together and it doesn’t help either that some set pieces looked too clean and glossed over – lacking the grit and weariness you’d expect from a war movie. Couple this with efforts to add humor at some odd moments throughout the film, and you’ve got a trifecta that hinders the movie from fully immersing you.

Heneral Luna more than makes for these flaws though through its artistic components – such as its beautiful score, well-crafted cinematography, and, most especially, its fantastic rhythmic script.
Technically marvellous is the only way to describe the movie’s sound design – from Luna’s table banging overpowering the raucous in a cabinet meeting, to a guitar mini-concert midway the film, to the overall masterful score. You have to give it to effort put in by Jerrold Tarog, who not only directed the movie but also provided its music.
All sorts of appealing too is Heneral Luna‘s cinematography. One scene you have to look out for is the flashback sequence to the general’s youth. This particular scene employs one long take, seamlessly moving from different sets that pass of as a childhood home, Europe, and other settings from different timelines. It is a visual spectacle, innovative and masterful in its execution.

Most notable though among the movie’s artistry is its script. Poetic yet conversational, Heneral Luna‘s script is filled to the brim with flowery lines of dialogue as if lifted from a sonata. It’s not everyday that you get to hear lines as beautifully crafted as “kailangan mong tumalon sa kawalan,” “digmaan ang iyong asawa, ako lamang ay iyong querida,” and “para kayong mga birhen na naniniwala sa pag-ibig ng puta.”Here is a script so elegant that it can even make curse words sound so cultured, so tasteful.
Overall, Heneral Luna is not just a film but a wake up call driving the ever reminder that some things never change. Its message – we Filipinos are our own worse enemies, lacking in resolve and torn by self-interests. It is a story representative of not just our current and still chaotic political landscape but of who we are and what we can do but don’t. Though it may not be perfect in its execution, the film does its duty in leaving us with the question lingering “Bayan o sarili?”