Screens — Sisterakas, Sid & Aya, Howl's Moving Castle
By Adolfo Aranjuez
Sisterakas
Wenn V. Deramas, 2012 // 105 mins // Netflix
With my birthday having just passed, and since I’ve leant pretty highbrow in my last few columns, I thought I’d indulge in some titles with strong personal significance this time around. (September 2020 also marks the 101st year of Philippine cinema, so let’s capitalise on the timeliness.) First up is the unashamedly populist comedy Sisterakas, directed by the late master of humour Wenn V. Deramas. Much like other national cinemas, filmmaking in the Philippines finds itself divided between work that sacrifices wide local appeal for palatability to viewers outside the country and work that is, in concept and construction, thoroughly for locals. Sisterakas—an uproarious, high-camp comedy propelled by an over-the-top revenge plot—falls squarely in the latter camp.
The film begins by introducing us to Totoy and Detty, half-sibling children who share a love for fashion. Both live under the roof of their well-to-do father, but, when Detty’s mother discovers the truth about Totoy’s parentage, she violently casts out the boy’s servant-mother, leaving the latter paraplegic as a result. All but shamed—and understanding, even at that young age, the implications of such hateful actions—Totoy vows to enact revenge on Detty and her kin.
When we next meet Totoy, he’s evolved into Bernice: Sisterakas’ answer to Miranda Priestly, played with icy fieriness by sharp-tongued comedian Vice Ganda, who is bakla (this identity label doesn’t map seamlessly onto Western frameworks of gender and sexuality, but I’ve unpacked it here, here, here and here). At once revered and feared by his underlings at haute couture label Ponytale, Bernice brokers million-Euro deals and dons outfits that would be the envy of any fashionista. Yet a void remains, his thirst for vengeance unquenched. That is, until Detty—now a mother of two and impoverished by a marriage gone sour—submits an application to become his executive assistant. With fate having delivered his estranged sibling to him, and with Detty unaware of his true identity, Bernice seizes on the chance to torture Detty by way of impossible errands and ego-shattering disparagement.
A huge part of this film’s appeal is its skilful encapsulation of Filipino bakya (‘unclassy’) humour, which, over time, has melded with the camp aesthetics of bakla culture: quick-fire doses of slapstick, sarcasm, wordplay, visual gags and self-aware pop-culture references. This caustic quality is heightened by Deramas’ appropriation of the tropes of malevolence, familial grudges and inescapable fate that are familiar to audiences by way of a beloved TV genre: the telenovela. Through this blend of mirth and melodrama, Sisterakas shines a clinical light on Filipinos’ valorisation of family. Beyond the events that set the story in motion, the film shows Bernice’s mission sucking in otherwise-innocent parties—a B plot centring on his godson and Detty’s daughter exemplifies the ways in which ill will is transmitted through generations. Another B plot (this film is… a lot) revolves around Bernice’s rival/nemesis designer Roselle, who, unbeknown to our protagonist, is simply trying to appease her mogul father. Here, we witness the corruptive tendencies of unquestioning loyalty, layered onto which are perspicacious depictions of class and inheritance.
Of course, Sisterakas is best enjoyed for its comedy rather than commentary—I don’t doubt that I’ve heavily overthought my take on it. I shan’t say more about the plot and themes, but do also prepare to be wowed by the glorious cast that includes legendary comedian Ai-Ai delas Alas, 1969 Miss Universe Gloria Diaz, and TV personality and presidential progeny Kris Aquino. Alongside Ganda, they electrify this quintessentially Filipino film that captures how revenge can taste both sweet and sickening.
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Sid & Aya (Not a Love Story)
Irene Emma Villamor, 2018 // 91 mins // SBS on Demand
As we’ve come to expect from films that tout—as Sid & Aya does—that they’re ‘Not a Love Story’, love does blossom despite constraining factors: two people pretending to be in love as part of some scheme or other, until the pretence becomes real; or a transactional exchange of intimacy with the disclaimer that neither party is allowed to fall in love, except they mutually can’t help themselves. In this way, Irene Emma Villamor’s (not-)romance is almost in dialogue with the Western titles that have come before it: Pretty Woman, Friends with Benefits, 10 Things I Hate about You. This also marks it as an example of the other type of national film, its outward-facing nature betrayed by its arthouse-adjacent cinematography; calculated use of colour and light; gritty, Hollywood-style first-person narration; and scenes of late-night existential banter.
Despite similarly homing in on the milieu of the rich and powerful, as Sisterakas does, the world here feels Western—Manhattan almost transplanted onto Manila. And there’s no melodrama to be found in Sid & Aya, a restrained affair that dramatises the alienation born of the cutthroat capitalist grind, and asks ‘deeper’ questions about what it means to love. Sid is a bigwig stockbroker stricken with chronic insomnia. One night, attempting to stave it off, he meets Aya, a coffee-shop worker, who charms him with her carefree attitude, zesty demeanour and beauty. Ever the entrepreneur, he proposes a deal: he’ll pay her a thousand pesos for every hour that she spends with him during his sleepless nights—no sleaze, no expectations, just conversation and companionship.
With the will-they-won’t-they dynamic established, the film proceeds to dive in to its meatier material. Unlike Sisterakas, this is unreservedly a statement film, commenting, in particular, on the interaction between relationships and class, and the price we pay to gain or delay love. For Sid, love is both elusive and unnecessary—a distraction from his escalating success and simultaneously the one thing he’s never achieved. For Aya, it is both a luxury and a trap: love sees her work several jobs to provide for her underprivileged family, which precludes her from carving out emotional space to cultivate a romantic connection. Elsewhere, the film critiques the commodification of intimacy, subtly paralleling Aya and Sid’s arrangement with Aya’s mother’s former job as a japayuki (a Filipina employed as a ‘comfort provider’ to a Japanese man). Every time I felt certain that Aya would expose herself as a manic pixie dreamgirl, Villamor’s script would subvert itself, corroding Aya’s catalyst role in Sid’s transformation from corporate loner to considerate love-sharer.
The film isn’t all gloom, however; as with the best Western (not-)love stories, there’s a perfectly pitched bittersweetness to the unfolding events, buoyed by a heartbreakingly dreamy indie-inflected soundtrack. The poignancy is sustained even as we approach the narrative’s (yes, predictable) denouement, which unravels beautifully in Japan, where the pair cross paths again after having fallen out. Most notably, Sid & Aya is brought to life by the superb performances of Filipina-Aussie Anne Curtis and—excuse my gushing—my forever-crush Dingdong Dantes, who imbue their respective characters with bravery and vulnerability in equal measure. Another of the film’s themes is risk, an integral ingredient in both love and the stock market. So, taking a leaf out of Sid’s saccharine playbook, why not take a risk on this sobering romance-drama?
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Howl’s Moving Castle
Hayao Miyazaki, 2004 // 119 mins // Netflix
Speaking of Japan (where I spent my birthday in 2016—oh, the mems!), it would be terribly remiss of me to not recommend one of the many exquisite Studio Ghibli films currently available to stream on Netflix. (Yes, I did visit the Ghibli Museum and, yes, it was everything I dreamed and more!) I shan’t attempt the insurmountable task of picking the ‘best’, or even my favourite, Ghibli title, so, instead, let’s go with the one I encountered first: Howl’s Moving Castle. I’ll also likely fail to do justice to the magnificence of this expansive film in the context of a column, so perhaps I’d best keep this brief.
This absorbing 2004 adaptation—which deviates in many ways from the 1986 source text by Diana Wynne Jones—offers a fairytale romance that is more elevated than what we’re accustomed to seeing in all-ages animation. Sure, the traditional beats of magic-boy-meets-girl are present (a meet-cute, a princely dreamboat, obstacles to the happily-ever-after, eyes locked on longing eyes and names shouted as the pair is torn apart), but there’s a complexity to the expressions of affection in Hayao Miyazaki’s rendition. The titular sorcerer is powerful, popular and a pretty boy, but oh-so-self-absorbed; he lives with a sentient flame and an apprentice wizard in a magically-cobbled-together structure that regularly repositions to ensure Howl et al. evade danger. One day, he chances upon Sophie and rescues her from some smarmy soldiers, which sparks an attraction that blooms over time. However, when a spurned lover of Howl’s—herself a skilful magic user—learns of Sophie and Howl’s reciprocal feelings, she curses our heroine with taking on the guise of an elderly woman. Sophie must find a way to reverse the spell, in the process smuggling herself into Howl’s employ and assisting in his mission to end the multi-kingdom war happening around them—not to mention the war within himself.
Standout elements of this film include its spectacular world-building (a melange of medieval, fantastical and steampunk), the strength of its characters (especially Calcifer the fire, a wisecracker with a curveball role in the overall arc) and the matter-of-fact, unassuming depictions of our central pair’s shared devotion. Also built into the storyline are reflections on growth and (im)maturity, accountability for past behaviours, found family, and how bravery and strength can express in acts of kindness as much as in assertive confrontation. It’s often said that stories for children contain the most profound of life lessons, packaged into accessible, digestible capsules. Here, the question that bedevils both Sophie and Howl—and the question posed to us in the audience—is: What is it, really, that you’re fighting for?