The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin.

The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin
Joe McGinniss
289 pp., Crown Publishing, 2011

If tabloid reporting is an indication of truthful journalism, then there is no denying the fact that Joe McGinniss’ The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin is a worthy example of such claim. If, also, investigative journalism entails for the “unbiased” excavation of dirt, then by all means, the consequent mudslinging can be attributed to the archaic truisms of ignorance. Such is the case of McGinniss’ book as a result of his quest for the “truth” in Sarah Palin’s rise to the American political spotlight.

McGinniss moved next door to the Palin residence in Wasilla, Alaska on 2010, as a “stroke of luck” as he would assert–despite being ready to sign a lease to an apartment in distant Anchorage–for the purpose of writing about how an unknown Alaskan housewife and self-proclaimed “hockey mom” propelled herself as the country’s biggest political celebrity since, I don’t know, Ronald Reagan maybe? Not only did McGinniss find a treasure trove of local color surrounding Palin’s character, but also of her personal ambitions and capacities/incapacities in actually attaining that.

To someone looking from the outside (even McGinniss coined the word “Outside” to the continental United States obliviously captivated by such a sensation–case in point, Oxford Dictionary included the word “refudiate” in honor of Sarah Palin’s idiotic faux pas), Palin’s persona is suffused with a deceptive charm, which regales and entraps the people in her close proximity. Yet little within the circle of people she worked with is actually enamored by her propensity to exude the fake girl-next-door attitude, as beneath that beguiling character is vengeful, narcissistic and vindictive whose only purpose is to elevate a personal goal. Her apparent political belligerence is perhaps the selling point of an image she continuously projects, and that the gullibility of the population she deftly exploited and played around with during her run for office. In the end, McGinniss writes, I think, with a sad coda than a livid admonition: “Sarah Palin practices politics as a lap dance, and we’re the suckers who pay the price [sic].”

If one would say that McGinniss writes with obvious intent, certainly that might translate to the financial remuneration for publication. Instead, Palin’s constituents would probably construe this as a well-placed character attack. As with most works of literature, the book needs to be taken with an exact amount of objectivity–which, I believe (even though I am not a Palin admirer, I still think McGinniss’ work as having too much to expose as it can be incredulous at some instances), might already be absent to those who see her as the future President-elect. The way McGinniss crisscrosses the narrative with his own experiences living a fence away from the Palins and Sarah’s political maneuverings is not proof of talent. But he compensates that with his ability to throw everything into the pot and allowing us, his readers the proposition of judgment. Besides, digging the so-called “dirt” does not require the absolute dexterity of command nor the appropriate erudition, but one’s acumen of finding that elusive diamond in the rough.

Available at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble or at your favorite bookseller.

 

New Year. New Reads.

I must admit: here is another addition to my growing list of backlogs.

And I am going to admit as well that my inclination towards reading has diminished. Guess my belief of erudition is concurrent with a person’s growth is erroneous, if not, an absolute hogwash. But then reading as a form of leisure does not require a certain wisdom necessary for comprehension. And I do think that my recent incapacity to pick up a backlogged title from my nearly-overflowing bookshelf is not perpetuated by any disability but by discretion. Yet with the growing number comes the ultimate need to trim down those that are still unread. So there you go, as probably a resolution sort-of, I will begin the daunting task of cutting down the literature pileup I inadvertently made.

Ironically though, these four titles arrived in the post a few days ago. Stacked up and patiently waiting for me to retrieve them from the parcel locker of our mailbox.

1. The Battle of the Wilderness, May 5-6, 1864 (Gordon Rhea, 1994) – my predilections apparent in my choice of literature perhaps still has not replaced by the occasional foray into literary-fiction genre. And also as a method of progression that I deviate from the platitudinous mention of Gettysburg when the history of the American Civil War is discussed. Rhea’s first in the Overland Campaign is a gold-mine in historical detail, I believe, much as his subsequent books on the subject.

2. Chancellorsville (Stephen Sears, 1996) – another well-regarded skirmish during the aforementioned conflict, written by another scholar on the matter. I have Sears’ brilliant account of the Antietam battle, Landscape Turned Red, and it became a point to get a copy of this sooner (well, that sooner meant two years–and plenty of books in-between). Chancellorsville was Robert E. Lee’s and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson’s greatest victory in the war and, also, their last together as Jackson was mortally wounded during this battle.

3. The Battles for Spotsylvania Court House and the Road to Yellow Tavern, May 7-12, 1864 (Gordon Rhea, 1994) – Rhea’s second book on the Overland Campaign immediately follows the bloody Wilderness battle. Spotsylvania had beckoned me before to visit the site on our way back from the road trip with tourist signages pointing to the cluster of battlefield parks that festoon a stretch of interstate somewhere in Virginia. Little I had known of this fight except on list of clashes that came with a historical overview of the war.

4. Guadalcanal: The First Offensive (John Miller, Jr., 1949) – part of the “Green Books” of the US Army in World War II series (one of which was The Fall of the Philippines by Louis Morton that I printed off the internet and had my sister bound it at Recto), this copy was a reissue commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the start of World War II. Historically, Guadalcanal (in the Solomon Islands) was the first offensive the US Army took following the surrender of Corregidor in the Philippines during the early stages of the war. Malick’s The Thin Red Line (adapted from James Jones’ novel of the same name) is set on this small unknown island in the south Pacific.

As usual, I got them extremely inexpensive on eBay but with what you saved is keeping up to the length of time it will take to reach you. But I have no quibbles especially on the condition of the books since I am quite meticulous on that aspect. Having said that, I think, I still have a couple more coming in a few days.

 

Political Movies.

Weeks ago, I made fun of some unknown blogger’s Top 10 Best Political Films of All Time (hear that: of all time–that certainly meant a definitive must see!) in Twitter, yet what he listed were “political films” churned out by none other than the big bad pseudo-artistic conglomerate that is Hollywood. I have nothing against Tinseltown except that their approach towards cinema is simply and undeniably economics. Aside from a handful that can be considered worthy of being aesthetically important, Hollywood’s gradual deterioration had me thinking of its inevitable filmic future. But anyway, I was ‘challenged’ (no, not the guy whom I made fun of) to come up with a list of my Top 10 Political Movies, but I am not going for the cliched “authoritative list of s0-and-so”.  It would be blasphemy for the ultimate cinephile to do that, I suppose. 

So, here goes, in no order of preference:

1. Z (Costa Gavras, 1969) – the quintessential political movie, Costa-Gavras is a filmmaker with probably a score to settle. Brave and uncompromising, basically a confounding lefthook against a repressive authoritarian government, the film is based on Vassilis Vassilikos’ fictional account of a real-life dissident’s assassination and its subsequent cover-up. For what its worth, I think, Z is considered a film of mobilization by either ideological wing.

2. Etat de Siege (Costa Gavras, 1972) – if Z is the principle, State of Siege is mass action. Costa-Gavras’ take on the kidnapping/murder of an American diplomat in some unnamed South American country focuses not just on the investigation of the crime, but the machinations of leaders of involved countries. The complacency and the consequent reactions are beguiling, yet the truth stings in areas where you don’t expect it.

3. La Bataille d’Alger (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1966) – Pontecorvo’s film about the Algerian war of independence is practically a sort-of barometer for political films. Its neorealism is evident of the Italian movement; its message straightforward. And the film’s depiction of unconventional warfare through the use of urban terrorism is unnervingly chilling. Perhaps a better (however graphic) understanding of the system of liberation through methods of violence as the last remaining route to undertake.

4. Salvador (Oliver Stone, 1986) – I was around six or seven when my pop brought home a box filled with Betamax tapes and one of the titles was this. Rumored to be banned in Manila theatres for fear of emulating the civil strife and its resulting social anarchy in El Salvador, Oliver Stone’s film is wretchedly painful to watch due to its graphic violence, yet perversely funny especially of Woods’ portrayal of a journalist trapped in the chaos.

5. Sister Stella L. (Mike de Leon, 1984) – As I’ve said before, this is Pete Lacaba’s film more than it is Mike de Leon’s. Undeniably angry to the point of its indictment of the Marcos regime, the film illustrates the climate of emotions running perilously high in the aftermath of Senator Benigno Aquino’s assassination. Such emotions will culminate in a “people power” and the end of dictatorship two years later.

6. Orapronobis (Lino Brocka, 1989) – Subversive as it is overtly critical. Brocka helmed most 1980s melodramas with such force that they shatter most social verisimilitudes and political contexts. The heat of transition to full democracy sees a provocation of intolerance towards issues that the government would do its best to keep out of public scrutiny. And within Orapronobis, is the nudge to peek. At least with a careful eye.

7. The Bad Sleep Well (Akira Kurosawa, 1960) – Kurosawa’s overlooked Hamlet-ean tale of corporate politics and greed is a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare’s applause. The film can also tread along the familiar path of morality plays Kurosawa is famous for as its snippets of sentimentality blends itself to the noirish elements of the narrative. Its dark theme follows the contemporary retelling of a literary masterpiece, much as it symbolizes the corrupt backdoor dealings of the Japanese postwar reconstruction.

8. Good Night, Good Luck (George Clooney, 2005) – The power of the media as the apparent voice of truth versus the mechanism of the political machinery hiding behind the opaque curtain of paranoia is like two Goliaths vying to knock each other out. But the McCarthyist witchhunt of postwar US is excessive and ‘unconstitutional’–with history unconsciously repeated itself. The film patches the lesions of an era as much as an effective cautionary tale.

9. Fail Safe (Sidney Lumet, 1964) – I could have included the Gaghan remake instead, but I think the original retains a semblance of the nuclear paranoia and the political chess match evocative of the apocalyptic destruction that had played in the public consciousness during the 1960s. Lumet’s interpretation of the Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler novel is faithful, if not, spot-on, and with the same magnitude of incapacity and apparent propagandistic fatalism.

10. That Obscure Object of Desire (Luis Bunuel, 1977) – if sexuality fits in the spectrum of the human polity in cinema, then I believe, Bunuel’s later classic is not so much as a definitive, yet it earns a place nonetheless. Bunuel’s undertones are practically illusionary and bordering on surrealism, however its political surface screams as loud as Godard’s political cinematic wallpapers. Wait for its near-mindfuck finale–probably defeats anything that David Lynch made.

Shortlisted: Salvatore Giuliano (Francesco Rosi, 1962); Triumph of the Will (Leni Riefenstahl, 1935); Wag the Dog (Barry Levinson, 1997); Bayan Ko, Kapit Sa Patalim (Lino Brocka, 1985); Seven Days in May (John Frankenheimer, 1964); The Conformist (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1970); The Ghost Writer (Roman Polanski, 2010) and The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelles, 2005).

Similarly to the other lists that I made, this is tentative. Lists are subject to revisions and omissions. Films that would lose its potency over repeated screenings are at risk of being dropped out. While films that maintain its relative importance to me would somehow be retained. Films can be added, as well, as my constant inclination to watch movies is open to unexpected discoveries.

 

 

Wishful Thinking for Philippine Cinema.

I know it’s kind of late, but what the heck–

(a little background note: Personally, I did not know Alexis Tioseco except that he also frequented the same online film forum as I did. All that I know of him was his handle [appropriately, a forum nickname], when pointed out by another member-turned-friend of mine. He had established both a personal blog on cinema and a film journal that I often visited then–as much as Noel Vera‘s blog as well–and that was the time I associated him as a kind of advocate for the local film scene. In it, he wrote a long list of his ardent wishes for the Philippine Cinema. Tragically, Alexis was killed together with his companion, Nika Bohinc, two years ago. And a writathon was organized by a group of Filipino cinema enthusiasts as a way of tribute to his vision.)

RULES:
1. Pick one wish from Alexis’ wishlist. Google the article “WISHFUL THINKING FOR PHILIPPINE CINEMA” for a guide.
2. Write about it on your blogs or word processors. No specific length, style or approach is required.

“I wish there was a film library that people could go to in order to read books on cinema.”

I certainly wished that, too.

Way before the recent economic downturn, I dreamt of putting up a bookshop-cum-cafe and peddle literature and caffeine. I even went as far as designing the entire structural setup complete with the choice of furnishings and whatnots through a three-dimensional computer software called 3D Home Architect. Also the feasibility was simply juvenile (and probably financial or lack thereof)–for such pipe-dreaming was an offshoot of my inherent love for books. Nothing more.

My torrid love affair with the cinema began after college. When a film class opened up my prevaricated sensibilities to films I have not even heard of. Except for Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather (1973)–which, incidentally, was a subject of a midterm examination that I regrettably flunked. Even the names of directors that, before, were obscure suddenly became not just the perennial namedrops on online discussions, but were actually pillars of world-class filmmaking. Names that go by de Sica, Fellini, Truffaut, Godard, Antonioni, Reed, Powell, Ozu, Kurosawa, Kar-Wai, Fassbinder, Rohmer, Imamura, Kieslowski, Renoir, etc. I was so enamored by the British auteur, Alfred Hitchcock, that his works became a focal point for our thesis–comparatively sought his practical and didactic influence to Filipino film students/makers. Nevertheless, my knowledge and exposure to films were at a limit. Still, your usual Hollywood fare and classic war films were my predilections.

But then erudition comes with age, fortunately. And I’m happy to say that I had treaded the ineluctability with sufficient relish.

My initial impression towards the Philippine Cinema was Lino Brocka and the undying histrionics that win awards. Aside from that and probably the political horror genre of the mid-80s, I was clueless on what was supposedly “great” and what was not. Yet during that time, the fad was the sexually-exploitative movies churned by the factories of Seiko Films and Viva and occasionally, Regal. Films that launched and ended careers and tailored reputations. Films that were not merely lucrative in the box office but devoid of any artistic substance. Films with such delectable prurience and ribald appellations that you question their marketability. Films that were bootlegged on late-night cable TV–admittedly, as my adolescent hormones were furiously outpouring–I subscribed to, and stayed till early morning hours to watch them. My introduction to Mike de Leon and Ishmael Bernal and Peque Gallaga and Celso Ad Castillo, despite late in the filmic progression, somehow turned into more than just a splinter in my mind’s eye.

Anyway, as I scrap my desire to establish a less-than-profitable business venture, instead, I envision another on a larger yet more inconceivable scale. Oh yes. I want to put up not just an ordinary film library but with an adjoining cinematheque as well (I am more inclined to this than the library, though). Something modeled to the public libraries here, however, specifically dedicated to the study of movies. You heard me. And it is definitely “wishful thinking”, if not absolutely unrealistic in my present state of financial existence. Mogwai Cinematheque in Cubao would have been the fruition of Alexis’ wish, but as probably another victim of the fluctuating economy, sadly had to end its run (I should’ve seen that place when we flew back home a year ago). Perhaps the reason was the cumulative number of films in my possession (read: DVD) and books that filled up four shelves (and I’m running out of precious space to store them). I have promised my kids that they would some day inherit the entire collection (provided that DVDs and Blu-ray and printed books on paper are still the norm), however, there is the nagging feeling of opening it up to the passionate few who share the same interests that I have. Quantifiably, I knew I have a substantial amount of films stacked up, particularly foreign arthouse (the Criterion Collection!), a handful of classics, a scattering of mainstream–and my books on the subject of cinema, despite a meager number, is starting to trickle in with works by Rafferty, Farber, Ebert, Lopate, Truffaut, Rosenbaum and, of course, Cruz/Dayao/Bolisay/Khavn (hopefully, I’ll be able to get a copy of Noel Vera’s next time I fly back home).

So, there you go. It’s basically a wishful thinking within the bigger “wishful thinking”. But you never know, if I win the lottery or someone bequeaths me a tract of land with an old decrepit theatre that needs renovation, everything wouldn’t be so far-off, would it?

 

 

 

Sister Stella L. (1984)

Sister Stella L. – Mike de Leon

I was four years old when Senator Benigno Aquino Jr., was assassinated in the tarmac of then-Manila International Airport on August 21, 1983. I was four and oblivious. All that I can remember of those fateful years prior to the Revolution three years later were the empty scaffoldings and concrete foundations of the Light Railway Transit being constructed that festooned the gridlock-free thoroughfares of Manila. I was oblivious of the brewing political powder-keg, but I knew someone famous died. Our television was tuned to the channel where the wake and the funeral procession were aired, and even now I can still remember how the supposed cortege sped through towards Sen. Aquino’s final resting place. Before, I took everything at face-value. Even the tickling curiosity of a film’s popularity. I heard of Mike de Leon’s Sister Stella L. (1984) through words passed on–probably through my folks and my aunts or the circle of adults in our household–and what came after that was the phrase: “…hindi yan pambata” (“…it’s not for kids”).

Of course, the themes prevalent in Sister Stella L. are definitely not your average kiddie fare. The film tells the metamorphosis of Sister Stella Legaspi (Vilma Santos), from a mere spectator in the sidelines of social injustices and oppression to her actual involvement in the struggle against it. But her transformation does not arrive too abrupt and quick, with a deus ex machina contravening the process, particularly on the constitutional barrier imposed upon religion versus politics. Then there is Nick Fajardo (Jay Ilagan)–Sister Stella’s former flame and a journalist by profession–who disapproves of her conversion to nunnery (“ano bang meron si Kristo na wala ako?” [what does Christ have that I don't?] he empathically quizzes her) and feels cheated when she left him for such a cloistered living. When a labor union in a cooking oil factory goes on strike, Sister Stella is approached by her friend who shares the same name as her (Laurice Guillen), and gets dragged into its dirty mess. What happens after that is a complete turnaround of Sister Stella, who for the most part, is encumbered by the stringency of the virtue of charity confined to her convent duties (as a counselor to mistreated women in Caritas), and towards an active participation in upholding public righteousness.

Sister Stella L is undeniably, an angry film. It reeks of the pungency of a dictatorial regime and immersed in the canker of political and social repression. It is Jose F. “Pete” Lacaba’s film more than it is Mike de Leon’s. It is ideologically furious and liberalistic that you might surmise the film as left-leaning rather than simply a hard nudge at the Marcos government. Interesting to note of Lacaba’s background in the underground movement after the imposition of Martial Law in 1972, which, as most of the intellectually enlightened ended being rounded up by the military, thus his exclamation is compellingly evident in Sister Stella L. Also, the film acts as, Noel Vera pointed out in his review, “a response to Aquino’s assassination”, and perhaps as an aesthetic vehicle to forward the political displeasure of the Filipino population during those turbulent years.

That response comes in the form of the mass: the Ka Dencio (Tony Santos Sr.), whose eminence is regaled not with the truckload of riches, but as the reason for the struggle. They represent not just the Filipino people in need, but of the country as a whole. During a time when transition is demanded. Lacaba’s script is blunt and rigid, and his choice of dialogues is potent and forceful. And guided by Mike de Leon’s firm grasp, tying its loose-ends but eventually yielding it to Lacaba and his vision for change. So much as a propagandist film than a searing melodrama with political intonations, but Mike de Leon adamantly tries to show it as human as possible, for he is so keenly adept in illustrating humanity on screen–be it representative of imperfections or its lovely opposite–the close-ups and the monologues are clear proof.

Also, in the film’s first minutes, we witness a kind of relevancy we could not deny exists nowadays: the separation of the Church and the state, particularly on affairs that have a lasting effect on the people. “Hindi ang mga tao ang dapat makinig sa yo, ikaw ang dapat makinig sa kanila” (“The people should not be the ones listening to you, instead, you should be the one listening to them”), Sister Stella Bautista quietly ripostes, summarizing the supposedly inherent role of the laity in its profession of faith and service. A reversal of such an adage practically prevails in the Church’s current social rearings, despite the invisible boundary. But is activism a justification for the intrusion? Probably dependent on the circumstances. The motivation is noble and not of selfish traditionalism, that the film likewise bestows the necessity of religious congregations to act as a force to mobilize.

Maybe the film is too radical in its approach, and frankly, Mike de Leon would possibly agree to that. Like most people would notice, Sister Stella L. is undoubtedly, not a Mike de Leon film. He has a hand in its production, but it is certainly not his. It has all the footprints of Pete Lacaba firmly planted in, from its conception to structure, similarly like what he did with Lino Brocka’s hard-line Bayan Ko…Kapit sa Patalim (1985) and Orapronobis (1989).