At the heart of Dwein Baltazar’s Mamay Umeng is the unflinching,
unblinking gaze at the consequences of old age and its cruel slowing of time. Whereas a film
like Bwakaw squeezes this similar theme for crowd pleasing moments and warm
fuzzy feelings, this one stares at it warts and all, with most of the pathos withheld.
There’s a defining scene here where the titular old man gazes at himself
full-length in a mirror, full of folds and wrinkles, and all the narcissism and
self-delusion of youth appear gone. He may have just danced with the fairest
girl in town, but his illusions end there. That instant might serve as a postscript
to Lacan’s idea of the so-called mirror phase, where a child at a certain point
admires itself in the mirror in total libidinal misrecognition and
idealization.
Death is a natural part of life, it is often parroted. It
is the antithesis that plays its part in a cycle, a process. But Baltazar, a precocious young director, deromanticizes the approach of passing, so that the seeming reminiscence
of a long life can be the worst form of entrapment. The stagnation of hours,
born of old age, and not the acts of man nor the elements of nature, may be the most unkind
of inhumanities.
At least, it seems that way. Dwein Baltazar’s quiet and
contemplative but profound first film is much-reserved and never wordy: her
assured and well-tempered direction relies on observational camerawork rather than
a rhetorical script in its statement about the nature of life and death. The
film unfolds in a series of plans-séquences -- static, unedited long takes that are paradoxically
hauntingly expressive to our captive contemplation – detailing the elderly
routines and the peregrinations of the titular hero, 84 years old, whose spirit
is willing and desiring, but whose mind and flesh are weakening.
However there are also moments when Mamay Umeng is like a
dynamo with vast reserves of sudden will and energy. Waking up at ungodly
hours, driven by unknowable rhythms, or the absence of them, he wanders far away
from home, even as curiously his mysterious compass points to destinations both
mystical and perspectival: towards a vanishing point? Through establishing
shots that are never downsized into close-ups, we see his smallness in the
scheme of things, the vastness of the sea, the breadth of paddy fields, like
perhaps a diminutive figure in an ancient Chinese scroll painting.
Baltazar’s first film is recursive, cyclical and
unrelieved in its observation of the seemingly inescapable routines of senescence.
In scene after recurrent scene, almost always without words but sometimes not
without subtle humor, we see him light votive candles to the Child Jesus, listen
to soap operas on radio, and sit alone partaking of coffee or snacks or just
straight solitude. Sometimes Mamay Umeng wanders through the shrubbery as
though trapped in a labyrinth so that we wonder if the old man is in the grip
of dementia – and how often is he guided and called back home, how he seems
otherworldly lost in thought amid the bustle and play of children around him! But
these are all cumulative tropes and never heaped on out of nowhere. The symbolic
juxtaposition of youth and old age is unmistakable.
What complements the film’s sense of enigma is the old
man’s still and stoical presence. He is often quiet, lost in thought and unaffected by solitude or noise. But in one rare moment, the most surprisingly expressive
one within the film, he sings a happy song to a friend who ironically would soon
be deceased. Punitive fate of aloneness, and a remembrance of his own inevitable fate yet again.
Baltazar, however, can sometimes be nitpicked for youthful modesty or is it
just reverence for her old protagonist that she tarnishes and blurs the
all-too-revealing mirror? But we get the picture: cinema is the mise en scene
of desire, the medium of scopohilia; Mamay Umeng, on the other hand, is the mise en
scene of death, and perhaps ought to be taken in mediated, regulated measures.
Baltazar’s slow burn, of old age, of time’s decay, is
well-observed, well-judged and patient, unfolded through compassionate framing
of the old man’s physiognomy: how often a profile instead of a full-frontal
close-up. Baltazar also judiciously employs synecdoche, the mirror reflecting
only the lower extremities of Mamay Umeng, as if to dismantle and dehumanize
the old man in his long, terrible wait. In a few great moments, this studious
and already sophisticated director reminds us of the uncompromising cinema of
Carlos Reygadas and Lisandro Alonso, where the wrinkled and/or ugly body tells all
and yet how elevated it is to the truthfully sublime. But for someone with already
such a sure touch, Baltazar should read this review with a pinch of salt.
Welcome to Philippine cinema, Dwein Baltazar!
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ReplyDeleteHi sir! Pasensya na po kung inabot ako ng halos isang taon para makapagpasalamat sa review niyo. Ang totoo, isang taon ko ding pinag-isipan kung anong I-re-reply ko. Pero gano'n din mukhang simpleng "salamat" lang talaga ang kaya at ang cliche na "nakakataba ng puso" okaya isang speechless na --> :) (smiley)
ReplyDeleteHanggang sa mga susunod na pelikula.
-Dwein
Thanks, Dwein, your first film made a believer out of me. I look forward to the next one. :)
ReplyDelete