Feast and Famine: A Book Review

Below is a slightly revised version of my book review of Feast and Famine: Stories of Negros, Rosario Cruz Lucero's second collection of short stories, which was published in the May/June 2004 issue of The Reviewer. As I had guessed, the book later won the 2004 National Book Award for Fiction, together with another Negros-themed book, Vicente Garcia Groyon's The Sky Over Dimas.


Title: Feast and Famine: Stories of Negros (2003)
Author: Rosario Cruz Lucero
Publisher: University of the Philippines Press

Most local short-fiction collections today often contain stories with recognizable middle-class characters dealing with modern-day issues against a familiar urban landscape. But not Rosario Cruz Lucero’s Feast and Famine: Stories of Negros. The title says it all: the richly textured, award-winning stories included in this slim but superb book are set in sugarcane country, a place that’s at once magical and mysterious.

The ironically titled “The Death of Fray Salvador Montano, Conquistador of Negros,” which won first place at the 2001 Palanca Awards, focuses on a fraile during the Spanish colonial period who steadily finds himself overwhelmed by the disturbing exoticism and sensuality of the land to which he is assigned. On the other hand, “The Composo of Hacienda Bayung,” which was a finalist at the 2000 NVM Gonzalez Awards, is set in the post-Marcos era and deals with a string of mysterious disappearances that took place in the title setting.

The collection also contains two stories that won first place in the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. The first, “Good Husbands and Obedient Wives,” which won for 2002, poses an intriguing question: Did the woman “kill” her husband out of wifely duty, or is out of something else? And the second, “The Oracle of the One-Eyed Coconut,” which won for 2003, presents different theories as to what led a town mayor to be assassinated.

But the best story, to me, is “Doreen’s Story,” which won first place at the 2003 Palanca Awards. Clever and inventive, this is metafiction that actually works. Here, Lucero uses characters, factual and fictional, and previously produced oral and written information to create a story that explains the necessity of writing it. How can one top a story like that?

Lucero’s firm, precise prose brings these stories to life. Her language may not be that lyrical, but the stories nonetheless radiate with their own special magic. And the rich details she invests them with betray her close familiarity with their setting. No surprise there, since she spent her formative years in Negros. With this collection, Lucero joins Reynaldo Duque of Candon and Carlos Aureus of Naga in putting the home of her youth in the map of Philippine literature.

The verdict: Literature students and teachers may remain to be the collection’s most receptive audience, but ordinary readers should find Feast and Famine: Stories of Negros worthwhile. The best stories often transport readers to another place, another time, whether they’re familiar with it or not. And Lucero’s stories do just that. Hm, I smell a possible National Book Award soon. (Copyright © 2004 by A.I.D.)

The Cuts on Her Wrist

Inspired by Fast Food Fiction: Short Short Stories to Go, below is a piece of flash fiction that I wrote last year. I had received some encouraging feedback since then, but I know this can still be improved. So far, the word count reached 440. Not bad, if I say so myself.


THE CUTS ON HER WRIST

When she heard the priest speak from the other side of the rattan screen, she felt her heart skipping a beat or two. Then, as though to catch up she felt it pumping a little faster, a little too hard. But as she knelt there, she remained alert. And silent. And still. So still, she felt the air conditioner drying up the beads of sweat on her forehead and cooling the slim, chain-like silver bracelet that failed to conceal a pair of healed cuts on her slender wrist.

Then she spoke, cautiously, softly, almost whispering. But she was quite sure he heard her: silence. Lingering, uncomfortable. Silence, except for his unusually deep—and rapid—breathing. She wondered: What is he thinking? Is he going to excuse himself, again? But his door remained closed. She had often thought what she would do in this exact situation. Make a scene, perhaps? But not now, she realized. Not here. Never.

She told him about the cuts on her wrist. Her lover drove her to it, she explained. She couldn’t understand his sudden disappearance from her life: Was it something she had said? Had she done something wrong? Had she been too demanding of his time, especially on weekends? She had probed her memory of their 18-month relationship for clues; there were none. No one knew where he was. Very few people even knew about them.

She also told him that, after the doctors had released her from the hospital, one of her friends made a lovely gesture. Why don’t you come with me to the province one weekend, just us, she quoted her friend. It will give you some much-needed peace of mind.

It took a while for the priest to talk. He asked her if she regretted what she had done. It amused her that he sounded as if he was the regretful one. She told him that what she did was probably wrong. But then again, would she be here if she had not done that?

She waited for the Our Fathers, Hail Marys and Glory Be’s she expected to recite when she heard him performing the Rite of Absolution. But even after he slowly, almost reluctantly slid the lid to close his side of the screen on her (for there were other penitents to attend to), she remained kneeling. She stared at the screen for a while, reminding her of impossible things—for her, for them. With her finger she gently traced the figure of a cross over it and then gradually stood up to go, careful not to rub her swollen belly, now lighter than usual, against the door. (Copyright © 2004 by A.I.D.)

Tama na! Sobra na! Palitan na?

So you want Arroyo to resign? Tell me, who do you want to replace her? A former mediaman with barely four years’ worth of political experience and who may be still beholden to his former bosses? Or a chinless Senate President who seems keen on becoming Vice President? Or a Dumbo of a House Speaker who has made so many compromises that he’s already a compromised politician? And please, don’t get me started on Susan Roces, Loren Legarda or even Rez Cortez.

So you want to force her out of office by staging EDSA 4? Great, just what this country needs: another rave. Sure, let’s have another street party, bigger and better than the last one, complete with gatecrashers. And while we’re at it, let’s make it an annual event. That’ll be awesome. But wait, isn’t this whole EDSA thing getting to be as novel as a Yoyoy Villame or Louie Camo ditty?

So you want to impeach her? Fine. I’m all for that. Really. Let’s go through the whole grueling, melodramatic process. And this time, let’s make sure that we finish it. Let’s prolong our agony, putting up with the clowns and jokers posing as our legislators as they impress everyone except their constituents with their appalling rhetoric. Yeah, let them “entertain“ us while the economy continues to sink faster and further than the Titanic. Maybe that’s what the country needs to go through, painful as it is.

So you want our government to shift to a parliamentary one, as FVR advised? Do you think our problems will just vanish when that happens? Ha! The mode of government may change, but not the people comprising it.

Everybody is keen on a change right now. Maybe what we need to change or replace are our brains? Let’s admit it: as a whole, we ratified the Constitution, we elected those now in power, we let all these things happen. We all failed, in one way or another, to do our part in solving our problems. Instead, we just talk and talk and talk and talk about them. Come on, our country is not an Oprah episode. As a college friend once said, we get the leaders that we deserve.

Oh My Sad Republic, a nation full of Voyeurs and Savages.

A Tale of Two (or Five) Cities

First, Moscow was eliminated. Then New York, followed by Madrid. In the end, London beat Paris to become the host city of the 2012 Summer Olympics.

I had hoped that Madrid would win the bid; London, Moscow and Paris had hosted the Games before, and New York, being an already crowded and truly global city, doesn’t need the Olympiad to revitalize itself. But London and Paris had been considered as the top contenders, with the latter tipped for the longest time as the favorite to win.

From the clips BBC and CNN had broadcasted, it seemed that both cities pulled out all the stops and presented great bidding campaigns. I must admit, London’s charmed me. But I was intrigued by what one analyst theorized as to why the IOC chose London. According to him, the IOC wanted the Olympics to leave a legacy to the prospective host city—and its people—long after the Games have ended. In London’s case, a revitalized East End, where most of the events will take place.

Poor Paris. It turned out this was its third unsuccessful bid in recent years to become the host city. I doubt it if they’ll join the race for the 2016 Olympiad; third time was obviously not the charm. My dad and I, while watching the live telecast, had thought of possible cities that have terrific potential to host the Games after London. We both agreed on Las Vegas. Why? It seems to have solid infrastructure, good climate, and more than enough capital to spend. And I heard that Nevada as a whole is booming.

London may have won, but I think New York has the best 2012 Oympics logo. And I may have favored Madrid, but I can’t believe their logo is that boring.

Here’s wishing London all the best of luck for the next seven years. For its sake, may it be spared from the pre-Olympiad problems that had plagued Athens.

The Virgin Suicides: A DVD Review

Beautiful Blondes: Therese (Leslie Hayman), Lux (Kirsten Dunst), Mary (A.J. Cook), and Bonnie (Chelse Swain) Lisbon are the doomed title characters of The Virgin Suicides.

For lack of something better to post right now, below is one of my better DVD reviews, which was first published in June 2003 in the Philippine Graphic. I hope you like it.

TEENS IN TROUBLE TURN TRAGIC IN THIS TERRIFIC FILM

Director: Sofia Coppola. Screenwriter: Sofia Coppola, based upon the novel by Jeffrey Eugenides. Starring: James Woods, Kathleen Turner, Kirsten Dunst, Josh Hartnett, A.J. Cook, Leslie Hayman, Chelse Swain, Hanna Hall, Michael Paré, Scott Glenn, Danny DeVito.

I have always believed that one of the challenges a filmmaker faces when making a period film is that it’s quite easy to capture the look of a certain time, but not the feel of it. And that capture should be complete and faultless. This is particularly true if a film takes place in 1970s America. The unbelievable clothes, the outrageous hairstyles, the amazing music—they’re easy to put on the screen. But not the trauma the decade had inflicted on that country. Watergate, the Vietnam War, the unprecedented permissiveness—these, and everything else in between, have knocked everyone off-balance and left them in a lingering daze. That’s hard to put on film.

Only a handful of films, in my mind, have not only met that challenge, but also met it very well. There’s Boogie Nights, Paul Thomas Anderson’s masterful opus on the porn industry at its peak, which nails the no-holds-barred excess and frenzy of the period. In contrast, Ang Lee’s cool and graceful suburban drama, The Ice Storm captures the startling sexual openness and moral confusion people were dealing with then. As for Almost Famous, Cameron Crowe’s bittersweet, semi-autobiographical comedy about a teenage Rolling Stone reporter’s coming of age while on a special assignment, it shows how fast, free-wheeling, and fun life was at that time.

And there’s the latest addition to that list: Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides.

This impressive feature, as narrated by actor Giovanni Ribisi, has two stories to tell. One focuses on an invisible group of men who grew up in a middle-class Michigan suburb in the 1970s, who recall an incident in their youth that has haunted them ever since, that they cannot help but talk about it every time they’re together. All throughout the film they try to piece whatever available information they have and figure out why it happened. But answers elude them.

The other centers on the Lisbon family—Mr. Lisbon (James Woods), a high-school math teacher; his very religious and overprotective wife (Kathleen Turner), a homemaker; and their attractive daughters (Leslie Hayman, A.J. Cook, Chelse Swain, Kirsten Dunst, Hanna Hall)—and how the isolating and stifling homelife the parents imposed on their girls leads to unimaginable tragedy, a tragedy that haunts the boys in their neighborhood for years to come.

Like its doomed heroines, The Virgin Suicides has an uncommon beauty that, at times, is unnerving and unreal to watch. Edward Lachman’s luminous cinematography, Jasna Stefanovich’s authentic production design and Nancy Steiner’s clean, crisp costumes contribute a lot in creating that lingering loveliness in which memory is filtered and comes out like a beautiful dream. And if it’s like a dream, then the entrancing musical score by the French electronica duo Air bolsters and enhances it. That’s not all: the film uses a good number of 1970s songs to outstanding effect. Truly, music plays a very important role in the movie, in more ways than one.

But they’re not the movie’s only highlights. There are the performances, of course—particularly from the principals. Woods is usually an intense and magnetic actor, and his previous performances reflect this; but his role as The Virgin Suicides’ dork of a dad apparently offers a refreshing change-of-pace for him, and as a result turns in an exceptionally understated performance. The same with Turner, and what’s awesome about her turn as a well-meaning meanie of a mother is that she makes you understand, makes you sympathize with her. These are complicated human beings, and Woods and Turner breathe life into them quite beautifully.

As for Dunst, who plays the flirtatious Lux Lisbon, she invests her performance with the weight and playfulness it needs, and persuades us to understand that her being a flirt is a form of rebellion. And Josh Hartnett, who has since gone to greater things with Pearl Harbor and Black Hawk Down, projects pure teen virility as Trip Fontaine, Lux’s studly suitor.

But the film belongs to the filmmaker herself. Better known as Francis Ford Coppola’s (The Godfather films, Apocalypse Now) daughter and Spike Jonze’s (Being John Malkovich, Adaptation) wife, Sofia Coppola finally steps out of their great shadows and comes into her own with this feature, her directorial debut in fact. And believe me, she holds great promise. There’s something eerie, elegiac, and elusive about The Virgin Suicides, much like the Lisbon girls; and Coppola superbly shrouds it with a strong sense of something unsettling underneath the surface. No doubt this is a mood-heavy movie, and Coppola clearly has tight control of her material (in this case, Jeffrey Eugenides’s novel of the same title). The film works because of her.

On the other hand, it doesn’t in a way. For all the craftsmanship that went into it, The Virgin Suicides is ultimately unsatisfying. This is a fatal flaw in most, if not all films; but I would like to think this is not necessarily the case with this particular picture. Maybe the movie reflects the frustration the neighborhood boys-turned-men feel over their failure to unlock the mystery surrounding the girls’ fate, to understand its roots. Or maybe the film is trying to point out that such an exercise is futile, that this futility will haunt them for a long time.

In any case, The Virgin Suicides’ DVD features partially eases that dissatisfaction. There’s the intriguing theatrical trailer, to begin with; and a handsome gallery of mostly spontaneous behind-the-scenes photos. The disc also contains an interesting music video by Air, titled “Playground Love” (one may never look at bubblegums the same way again); and the behind-the-scenes featurette shows how the film, in a real sense, is very much a family affair.

What a difference a decade makes: When The Godfather Part III was released back in 1990, many major critics had savaged Sofia’s performance (as Michael Corleone’s daughter) in it, suggesting that she was partly to blame why the film had failed to measure up to the brilliance of its predecessors. Ten years later, with The Virgin Suicides, she proved to those critics that she has a future in films (albeit behind the camera). And what a bright future it is. (Copyright © 2003 by A.I.D.)

Footnote: A year after this review came out, Sofia Coppola released her sophomore feature, Lost in Translation. As every cinemaphile know, it won several awards, including the Best Original Screenplay Oscar for the writer-director. This made her the fourth Coppola to win an Oscar, after her father Francis Ford (Best Original Screenplay for Patton in 1970, Best Adapted Screenplay for The Godfather in 1972 and Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay for The Godfather Part II in 1974), grandfather Carmine (Best Original Score for The Godfather Part II) and cousin Nicolas Cage (Best Actor for Leaving Las Vegas in 1995).