A prophet in his own land

Noel Vera

Lav Diaz's "Heremias" (2006) is 540 minutes long, an hour shy of the
length of "Ebolusyon ng Isang Pamilyang Pilipino" ("Evolution of a
Filipino Family, 2004), presently the record holder of the
title "longest single Filipino feature"--but then this picture is
only part one, titled, or so I'm told, "Book 1: The Legend of the
Lizard Princess." "Ebolusyon" spanned a broad canvas, featuring not
just the story of two families (rice farmers in Tarlac, wood
gatherers aspiring to become gold miners in the Benguet Province),
but the recent history of the Philippines as represented in a series
of documentary footage, from Marcos' declaration of martial law in
1972 to the EDSA Revolt in 1986 to the massacre of the farmers on
Mendiola Bridge in 1987. Along the way Diaz stuffed the film full of
all kinds of conceits, from film critic Gino Dormiendo playing Lino
Brocka in a series of televised interviews to a plot to assassinate
Brocka (?!) to a series of hilariously melodramatic radio broadcasts
that the families listen to religiously, as if at Sunday
Mass. "Heremias" is radically different--it's the odyssey of one man
(Ronnie Lazaro) from his village to the city and back; more, it's
his journey from a state of absolute innocence to knowledge,
disillusionment, guilt.

Diaz had told me once that he was interested in making a film about
these people--traveling peasants who pile their covered wagons high
with bits of handicrafts (rocking chairs, brooms, baby walkers, and
so forth), make their painfully slow way into town, and sell their
wares for remarkably low prices (you wonder: if their products are
so cheap, how much did these people spend acquiring--or making--
them?); here is the film he talked about, in all its implacable
glory. For a time we see nothing but Heremias and his wagon, pulled
by an ox (we get to know the animal quite well), rolling from one
end of the screen to another; the road--dirt as often as asphalt,
stretching past hills and trees and houses--often forms a diagonal
on which the small figure and his wheeled vehicle amble (slowly,
slowly) along. At one point a typhoon rages while the wagon goes
down a forest path--diagonally situated, as usual, this time from
right to lower left--and we wait for the wagon to reach the path's
nearer end before Diaz cuts, as he's done so often before. Suddenly
a sapling falls across the way; the path is blocked; the slow and
steady motion we have come to expect from so many hours' variation
on this particular composition cannot be completed--cannot be
fulfilled, if you will. We watch in mounting frustration as Heremias
gets off the wagon, chops the sapling up, pushes it out of the way;
eventually he manages to clear the path, climb back onboard, move
the wagon forward until it reaches the lower left corner of the
screen, and you're almost thrilled at the accomplishment.

(That scene and the ones following--endless images of whipping wind
and whirling rain--makes one wonder: did Diaz use several firetrucks
with an infinite supply of water, or did he just shoot in an actual
typhoon? The latter is perfectly possible, having an idea of Diaz's
style of filmmaking and the budgets with which he usually works--he
once ordered a shoot in the middle of a blizzard in "Batang West
Side" (West Side Avenue, 2001), to the chagrin of his largely Manila-
based crew).

When Heremias stops at an abandoned house near the town (called
Barrio Hapon in the film), his ox and wagon are stolen; he goes
wandering about the nearby forest, squatting silently in the
undergrowth, watching the house in the hope that whoever stole the
animal will somehow come back. At this point a group of teenagers
arrives; Heremias listens to them drinking and yelling and urinating
(often writing their names on the already vandalized walls); after a
while the effect of booze and drugs seem to vanish, and they discuss
in earnest the kidnapping, raping, and killing of a girl.

Much of this scene is captured in a single shot almost an hour long,
where the camera (assuming Heremias' point of view) squates behind
the leaves of a nearby plant and watches the young men in their
profane and casually brutal talk. We remember how skillful Diaz was
at writing the stoned dialogue of Filipino-American addicts
in "Batang West Side," how they seemed so funny, even hilarious,
until they turned murderously psychotic; here, Heremias has no
choice but to cower and hide (the leaves trembling for him) while
the youths yell and shriek.

When the teenagers go, they leave Heremias with a considerable
burden: what to do with his newfound knowledge? Diaz's names for his
various characters are never randomly chosen; they often have an
allegorical function. Heremias comes from Jeremiah, one of the
Bible's three major prophets, much of whose career was characterized
by the fact that few people listened to him. Heremias is not lying,
nor does he have any real trouble getting people to believe him;
it's just that the gang's leader is the son of a powerful politician
who owns the town, and anyone getting involved would be in serious
danger.

The rest of the film is in marked contrast with the first half, with
the teenagers' drunken night (an allusion to Walpurgis Night,
perhaps, where witches revel and youths go about playing all kinds
of harmful pranks?) dividing the two pieces. Diaz's camera shifts
from passive onlooker to mute witness of Heremias' increasing
distress, the lighting scheme going from daylight gray to nighttime
glare to a kind of pitiless clarity; Heremias' shuffle has if
anything become slower, his back stooped even lower. We watch as he
finds himself every bit as helpless with the girl as he was when his
ox and wagon were stolen.

Which brings us to the question: does "Heremias" justify its extreme
length? Diaz apparently finds nothing wrong in applying such intense
focus on an ordinary character; if anything, the character is made
extraordinary by said focus (Diaz either subscribes to the notion
that anyone is of inherent interest (we just need to look hard
enough), or that anything the camera looks upon is interesting (we
just need to train the camera on it long enough)). After what felt
like hours of watching Heremias' ox pull his wagon, I felt the man's
sensibility had seeped into my head, that I was counting minutes
much the same way as he does (drip after drip, by the gradual
liter), that I was a simple peasant walking under sun and sky,
looking at a world often harmful and depraved, eventually learning
that things can be so very much worse.

It's important to keep in mind that "Heremias" is just the first
half of a film, that Diaz is even now busily planning to shoot the
second half, reportedly in part about the forty days of walking and
fasting Heremias promises to undergo, if only God will save the
girl. Though narrower in scope I think this first half (a nine-hour
film on the problems of one man) is a braver experiment
than "Ebolusyon;" unlike "Ebolusyon," which veered wildly from 16 mm
to video camera to documentary footage (much of the time, thanks to
dire budget constraints, without rhyme or reason in the shift
between mediums), "Heremias" is visually of a piece; if the film's
tone shifts (from ultra-realist to diabolical) it's according to the
filmmaker's intentions and the needs of the story. The film was a
struggle to watch, especially the first hour, but I'm hooked; I
badly need to learn what happens next.

(First published in Businessworld, 11/10/06)

(Comments? Email me at noelbotevera@...)