Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros

Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros
(The Blossoming of Maximo Oliveros)
Directed by Auraeus Solito
Written by Michiko Yamamoto

It was enough of a challenge to just sit through and watch, especially when I knew I could be watching Glee or something equally entertaining instead of torturing myself with substantial life lessons. The grainy visuals and the not-quite-cleaned-up sound were just as much representative of the truth as they are part of the charm of independent cinema. Truly, independent cinema is unlike anything else.

The film hit closer to home than any other—perhaps for the obvious reason that it was, in actuality, closer to home. Where else would you find star shaped plastic lanterns and Christmas lights you know—you just know—someone went through bulb by bulb to find the loose one and bring the entire set back to life after finding it in someone else’s trash? There were other familiar scenes, of course: a poster of Claudine Baretto and Vilma Santos, neighbors betting daily in jueteng or Lotto, yellow and green striped taxicabs, tabo and balde baths in the morning, and the sign of the cross before family dinner.

For a movie about a twelve-year-old, it was heavy. It was dark and slightly depressing. It dealt with morality, poverty, desperation, hunger (and not just the kind that the scarcity of food fails to fulfill), death, responsibility, sacrifice, family, loyalty, betrayal, and the blurred lines between right and wrong. Oh, and a tiny tinge of sex, but only in little hints.

Maxi Oliveros needed to grow up fast, as dictated by the circumstances (a late mother and the need to scramble around for money to survive), but within him is still a young, innocent child, who has yet to learn so much.

It’s confusing for the viewer who needs clear cut lines. The stereotypical hero isn’t, and the family that seems to have such skewed values formed only through intense rationalizing. But then you’re also forced to realize that these values come about as a result of real need. Towards the end, even the very straight (and not necessarily in terms of sexual orientation) police man fails to hold on to the values that the silver crucifix perpetually hanging on his neck reminds him never to let go of.

This was difficult.

Saving Face

Saving Face
Written and Directed by Alice Wu

You would think that tradition only lived where it was born. And you would be wrong. It follows you wherever you are; it’s not something you can separate yourself from. Surely something will give you away—the way you speak, the way you dress, the way you struggle to keep your shoes on when you enter a house because you’re just so used to taking them off, your slit eyes.

Wilhelmina grew up in the States, but was raised Chinese. She grew up in a liberal culture, and has assimilated into a kind of life that seems perfectly normal—except it doesn’t; at least not for her family.

Her widow mother, comically portrayed as a stubborn yet deeply understanding woman, drags her to regular get-togethers of the Chinese community, where Wilhelmina is expected to find her future husband. (Why, her mother asks, is she wearing men’s clothes again?) It is at these get-togethers that we see how high the expectations are to fulfill what has been dictated by tradition, culture, and elders.

Along the course of the story, Wilhelmina does meet someone, a childhood friend she has forgotten, and something begins between her and Vivian. Wil holds back. Vivian tells her, in a line I cannot forget, “you’re too scared to look the world in the eye and let it watch you fall in love.”

Together, mother and daughter learn about each other, learn to support each other, and learn to stand up for themselves. In a way uncharacteristic of the expected subtleties, they break away from the restricting concepts of arranged marriage, sexuality, and shame.

I appreciated the character of Wilhelmina’s African-American best friend, a laid back guy who thinks Wil worries too much. He gives comic relief that is welcome but unnecessary (this is a very light story), and it is for him that all the nuances of Chinese culture need to be explained.

Also, I enjoyed how the Chinese culture was illustrated, but I wouldn’t be able to tell whether or not it was accurate. Our Philippine culture, though, did seem quite similar, albeit much less blatantly imposed. Culture is just as much part of one’s identity as sexuality is.

Everything is intertwined.

Luna

Luna
Julie Anne Peters

Coming out is something that each individual has to go through, whether homosexual, bisexual, transsexual, transgender, heterosexual, or anything else. It’s just far more subtle when who you are inside happens to be the same as who people can see outside. For Luna, it’s not that easy.

Luna cover

Luna is transsexual teen who was born in a boy’s body, but wishes more than anything to live in the body where she belongs. She faces discrimination, bullying, and is misunderstood with her life under the magnifying glass of critical peers and a very conventional family. But at least she has her younger sister Regan to help her through.

Regan doesn’t just watch as her brother Liam morphs into her sister Luna at ungodly hours, prancing around in their shared basement in dresses and makeup. She keeps Luna’s secret, knowing it matters more than anything else possibly could. It’s a heavy burden that she describes as feeling like a suffocating jacket she can’t seem to take off. But she loves her sister, and it pains her to see Luna unhappy.

When Luna finally decides it’s time to tell their dad the truth about herself, Regan worries. Regan is always worrying about Luna; it’s as though her whole life has revolved around protecting her. Flashbacks tell bits of the story, little things that Regan remembers and now sees through a different light.

The entire story is told through Regan, which I felt was the best way it could’ve been told. The book doesn’t attempt to get deep into Luna’s mind—only as far as Luna allows Regan. (Also, it shows the truth of how sexuality is no longer a personal matter; it affects so many of the people who surround you). In this way, we understand just how complicated it really is, just how difficult it is to understand transsexuality, but also how difficult it is to be someone you just know you’re not. The trouble lies in who the rest of the world think you should be.

I’m still undecided—was it happy ending? With so much at stake, you’re bound to have to give something up.

Don’t you know, you’re the girl I always wanted to be.

Hard Love

Hard Love
Ellen Wittlinger

I was a dependent twelve-year-old when I picked up Hard Love in the bookstore and handed it to my mother for her to skim and scan through the pages and ultimately determine whether or not the book was fit for me to read. She concluded, from what she saw, that the book was mostly about the character’s relationship with his parents, and was therefore safe for twelve-year-old me to read. Also, it was multi-awarded, with Michael Printz Award for Excellence in Young Adult Literature on a silver seal printed on the cover.

The book is also a winner of the Lambda Literary Award, which not many people know is given by a foundation that pushes for “raising the status of openly lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered people throughout society by rewarding and promoting excellence among LGBT writers who use their work to explore LGBT lives.”

Hard Love cover

Ellen Wittlinger writes the book for everyone whose first love was a hard love—and really, whose wasn’t?

Each member of the very diverse group of characters (who have nothing in common except for their passion for writing what they call zines) has his or her own set of personal issues revolving around dysfunctional family, sexual identity, and strangely enough, names.

You have a pair of very understanding, supportive parents on Marisol’s side, and another two parents who you really couldn’t call a pair, extremely distant and unable to communicate, on John’s.

Interspersed with excerpts from the characters’ zines, Ani DiFranco lyrics, letters, and poetry, is a story of how John falls in love with Marisol. John is not particularly interesting in comparison to Marisol Guzman, Puerto Rican Cuban Yankee Cambridge, Massachusetts, rich spoiled lesbian private-school gifted-and-talented writer virgin looking for love.

And it’s hard love, because you can’t blame anyone for why it just can’t work out. He can’t help who he fell in love with (and they say you’re not supposed to help it, anyway), and she can’t help who she can’t fall in love with. They’ve both had their hearts broken, but they aren’t meant to be the ones to mend the other one.

It’s not a happy ending, but you understand why it just can’t be.

The Realm of Possibility

The Realm of Possibility
David Levithan

From the very beginning, The Realm of Possibility is not your ordinary book. It’s shrink-wrapped in clingy plastic and set on one of the bookstore’s shelves, and you pick it up, scan through the back cover, and buy it.

The Realm of Possibility cover

You’re waiting a tale of teenage love and intertwined lives to be spun in beautiful lines like those you copied onto your planner because you didn’t want to forget (maybe for this book, you’ll write, this will linger). Because that’s what the back cover tells you.

You pinch off a hardened corner of the plastic wrapper, slide your finger along the sealed line, and proceed to peel off the rest. You’ve seen the two hands and the crowned heart on the cover before, but this time you take a second glance. Then you leaf through the first few pages until you make it to a gray page that has the heading “one,” followed by a list of four names.

Then you find that the book has been written in free verse, and you think, really, should you have paid all that money for a book with pages almost bare save for a few three-word liners?

But soon enough, you realize, yes, it was worth it.

You read through some stories, excited to figure out how each one connects to the first, so you cheat a little and look through the four other chapter dividers and you’re surprised to find your own name on one. But you don’t want to spoil it for yourself, so you quickly return to where you stopped.

Levithan isn’t telling the story this time. He lets the twenty teenagers write for themselves, each one with their own distinct style, and distinct mind.

Whereas other stories are limited by their one or two main characters, this one has twenty, a completely heterogeneous group in terms of sexuality, beliefs, culture, and experiences. Through these twenty, we see a full spectrum.

Leviathan understands, and lets us understand, there will always be different people with different interests. Here, in this realm of possibility, some of them intersect.

The Claddagh ring says, “With my two hands I give you my heart, and crown it with my love.”

South of Nowhere

South of Nowhere

By the time I heard about South of Nowhere, the show was on its last few episodes. I was a little late. I don’t think it’s ever been aired here. A friend burned me DVD’s of the first two seasons.

Its storyline was similar to that of any other teenage drama. Family moves to California from another state, the kids are exposed to local life and begin to adjust, the parents go through culture shock. It’s always the same, with just a little tweaking – look at The OC and 90210.

South of Nowhere scene from opening credits

So Spencer Carlin moved to Los Angeles and met the bitchy cheerleader, developed a crush on the heartthrob jock, and met the strange girl, Ashley, who didn’t quite fit in. But stereotyping is done away with soon enough. Each of the characters grows and learns – through religion, death, discrimination, drugs, money, sex, parenting, siblinghood, and prom.

By the end of the third season, you don’t have that character that you wish would just get out of the way of everyone else so that life could just be happier. The show isn’t presented in a particularly biased way; it just shows what is. The thing is, you have to be willing to see what is, as it is.

Don’t think of it as a lesbian series, because that’s not all it’s about – just like people are not solely defined by their sexuality. Everyone is something more. South of Nowhere is something more.

Perhaps what made the show succeed was that it had found its niche. It dealt with teenage homosexuality, which should’ve been so obvious, and yet no shows before it had ever focused on the topic. If anything, all the other shows would have at most a few episodes of a character going through a gay phase (Marissa Cooper in season two of The OC, and Rebecca Logan in season two of Greek).

It didn’t have the elements that would make other shows work – the stunning actors, the beautiful wardrobes, the poetic dialogue. (In fact, I personally hated the outfits). It was so simple.

I loved the day at the beach. It was beautiful. And I loved how Ashley always stressed, “because it’s so important.”