By Bianca Marañon
When I read or watch historical fiction, as much as I want to enjoy myself, I can’t seem to “turn off my brain.” I tend to be overly conscious of the research underlying such media, overly cautious about the slant of its historiography, and overly critical of how sources are interpreted. As unrealistic or even impossible as it would be, I find myself wishing that books and movies came with footnotes.
In fact, I recently gave an assignment to my students along these lines. I asked them to assess the historical accuracy of events, characters, or dialogue in a historical film by conducting their own research. So, when I stepped into the cinema to watch Magellan, I was ready to make some footnotes of my own.
Strangely enough, however, much of the movie did not require this of me. As is typical of Lav Diaz’ “slow cinema,” the film was filled with long takes and fixed shots. Some of these seemed like they could have been taken out of a documentary: waves crashing on bodies strewn across a beach, pintados watching Spanish ships draw closer to the shore, a babaylan chanting as she slaughters a pig and covers herself in its blood. I felt I was stocking up on material for my imagination to draw on when I read history books. This was reinforced by the fact that shots were “self-contained,” not tied together by dialogue or music. A conversation between two characters didn’t span more than a single shot. Indeed, there were long stretches of the film where there was no dialogue at all. I got the sense that I was not being “told” anything in particular – no footnotes necessary.
At one point, I started to doubt whether I could show this film to my students. I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that the film reflected the actual passage of time. The long takes could pose a risk of distraction and restlessness for less attentive audiences. For the more intent viewer, though, the film provided ample time and space to fill with one’s questions and insights.
Because I felt like I was witnessing events more than I was being told a story, I found myself taking on an active role, perhaps not unlike that of the writer of history. I was being presented with information, and because of minimal hand-holding from the cinematography and screenplay, I had to make my own inferences, answer my own questions, and put together my own interpretation of events.
That is not to say that artistic intention was completely absent, however. The audience would eventually grow accustomed to long take after long take, but towards the middle of the film, there were scenes that seemed deliberately drawn out. It was as though Diaz were saying, “Look at this. Pay attention to this.” This was all the more evident in shots with unconventional angles and compositions. One in particular that stayed with me is Enrique of Malacca in the center of the screen in the middleground, almost completely obscured by a tree. To his right in the foreground, a native woman is being violated by a Spaniard, and to the left in the background, a village is going up in flames.
Some narrative choices towards the end of the film shifted its storytelling approach from “showing” or “suggesting” to outright “telling.” I then felt I was taking on the role of the reader of history, weighing the interpretation of the past and wondering where history ended and story began. It was at this point that I commenced my footnote-making.
Colonialism was unapologetically framed as murder in the name of greed and glory, that it was also for God was cast in a skeptical light. In the scene of the first Mass, for example, when Magellan speaks of baptism as the embrace of God, he does so with a fervor that runs counter to the doubts and even derision of the Christianization of the world he expresses in earlier scenes. Enrique kneels nearby, looking upon Magellan with awe, but without translating any of the latter’s lengthy speech. Enrique then begins the cry of “Hesukristo” and “Amen” in the same tone and timbre with which he filled most of his scenes throughout the film: in a cage and about to be sold yet again, far from home in strange lands and strange clothing, at the bow of a ship amidst a heavy downpour. With that same voice, Enrique had cried out to Apo Laki, pleading for help and salvation.
After nearly three hours, the ending credits began to roll to a completely silent theater. The audience was stunned, maybe even confused, and we all stayed there for a good few minutes before finally getting out of our seats. There were a few smatterings of hesitant applause, but I got the sense that most of us were focused on trying to grasp the conclusion and implications of the film.
Magellan raised more questions than it answered, and we were doubtless wrestling with them as we trickled out of the cinema. What are we as Filipinos to make of Magellan’s detailed “backstory” that is seldom taught in schools? What are we to make of the film’s treatment of the figure of Lapulapu? What are we to make of Enrique’s lines, seemingly directly addressed to the audience, at the end of the film?
A few days later, fellow history teachers asked me, “Did you like the movie?” I answered, “Well, it’s not the kind of movie that you like.” My reply was harsh but well-meant. Rather than a good time, Magellan is a good exercise in reading with nuance, a good starting point for interrogating claims, and honestly, a good way to get a headache. The viewing experience is like the task of the historian – meticulous and taxing. It is as thought-provoking as it is beautiful, and I hope that more people around me can watch it so that I can pick their brains about it as well.
Photo by Hazel Orencio, via IMDB
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