The Colors of Pahiyas 2011

Lucban Church

Every May 15, the streets in the small town of Lucban become congested with people from different areas of neighboring towns and cities to see the colorful festival of Pahiyas. Despite the lack of sleep, I went to Lucban with my friend and his daughter for a whole day of walking and taking pictures under the heat of the unmerciful sun.

It is my second time to join the pilgrimage to this town nesting at the foot of Mt. Banahaw to join in the celebration of the bounty harvest of our farmers. The Pahiyas Festival is also a thanksgiving to San Isidro Labrador, the patron saint of farmers. All the houses and businesses (even funeral parlors!) in the selected streets for Pahiyas are decorated with colorful kiping. It is shaped like a leaf and is made of rice paste. Some locals do not use the leaf-shaped kiping as decoration though. They crush it, the kiping looking like crushed egg shells, then glue it to their walls and ceilings for added texture. 

A Two-Storey House Decorated with
Crushed Kiping from the Ground Up  

The Pahiyas Festival lasts for almost half a month, starting in the first days of May and culminating in the Grand Parade in May 15. A lot of activities were lined up in this year's Pahiyas, including Mutya ng Lucban, Ginoong Lucban, Gayak Carosa Float Parade, where the carriages pulled by carabaos are decorated with the agricultural products of farmers, and some Philippine games. Too bad I was not able to watch them, but all winners and runner-ups in the competitions held were part of the Grand Parade we saw.  

The small streets of Lucban were filled with thousands of visitors to join in the celebration.

There were more people this year than last year, I think. Los Banos being relatively near Lucban, we saw quite a number of friends and acquaintances from LB. We also saw a celebrity eating pancit habhab. He was apologetic for eating it in a plate instead of the traditional way of putting the pancit in one's mouth. It is best eaten with vinegar.   

Only in Lucban: Pancit Habhab

What I like best in this festival is the cultural authenticity of it. Unlike other festivals, Pahiyas is rooted in our agricultural culture and the locals are the ones who initiated it. In this festival, the farmers are given recognition due to them. The locals participate actively in the activities: farmers parade with their carabaos (my favorite part); local designers create colorful gowns and barong made from local materials like banig. Although there were also big companies sponsoring the event, the local government make it a point that the Pahiyas does not become their sponsors' festival.

A Farmer's Best Friend
Photo taken during the Grand Parade

What makes Pahiyas also memorable is the warm hospitality of the locals. They allow strangers to enter their home just so they can take their pictures. They invite strangers to eat and drink lambanog, the local drink made from coconut, even if it's only 9 o'clock in the morning. It is here where I experienced the famed Filipino hospitality during fiesta. Aside from the lambanog shots, we even spent an afternoon siesta in a local's living room and almost took a bath in their house, with its ice-cold water coming from Mt. Banahaw, to counter the afternoon heat.  

My Lakwatcha Buddies Inside a Local's Home

The only problem we encountered is transportation going home. We decided to leave Lucban at around 7pm. We thought it was still early, but there were no jeepneys. There was a long line of passengers. We waited for at least an hour before we were able to ride a jeepney (we called it the Busney because it's bigger than the usual jeepney, almost the size of a mini-bus). When we arrived in Sta. Cruz, Laguna, it was almost 10 pm. Together with many other passengers, we had to wait again for a jeepney going to Calamba, Crossing. And because we did not want to ride in the jeepneys with drivers and dispatchers who took advantage of the situation and suddenly increased the fare, we waited longer than the other passengers. When we arrived in LB, we had to wait again for a jeepney.

The Most Photographed House

The Most Colorful House

Although there was a lot of waiting before we could go home, it was a lot of fun. We ate, talked, walked around. We almost rode in a Ferris Wheel and Octopus that could take away our lives while we were waiting in Sta. Cruz, but we thought we'll die another day. And see another Pahiyas next year. 

See http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2089322431283.2132987.1191877324 for more pictures of Pahiyas Festival 2011.

Beautiful 'Biutiful'

Films about father and children always get to me. My last childhood memory of my father was when I was in Grade 2 (no, not because I have a memory of a goldfish). Then he left for the US to work and eventually to live. Then I last saw him last year when he returned for the death of his brother. Though they always make me cry, I love these kinds of films. I get to be a father's daughter, albeit vicariously. 

My favorite was Armageddon. Whenever I get to watch it, I always, always cry in that scene when the father, upon knowing the certainty of his death while he was out in the space saving all earthlings, talks to his daughter and tells her goodbye. 

And then, there's Biutiful.

It's a story of Uxbal (Javier Bardem), who is counting his days before he dies of cancer. He has the custody of his two children, Ana and Mateo, because his wife suffers from manic depression. He makes a living mostly by being a middle man between Chinese handlers and Spanish businessmen and the Police. Occasionally, because he has a supernatural gift, he is hired to talk to the dead. At times, he gives a little extra service of helping them cross to the world of spirits. 

His problem is how to tie loose ends in his life before he goes--his family, his job, and his gift; he has to transfer his gift as per advised by Bea, his confidant who can also talk to the dead and see death. 

The mood of the film was mostly gloomy but there were many tender moments between Uxbal and his children and even between Uxbal and his wife. The most memorable for me would be the one when he gave the stones to his children when they were at the dining table belatedly celebrating Ana's birthday. Bea said that he has to give it to his children when he must go. Uxbal was certain he was going to die that night, but he did not tell the children. He only told them that the stones were "a gift from their dad," who could not even buy them burger and fries and chocolate milkshake. 

Another one is when Ana walks into the bathroom and finds his father having a hard time peeing. She confronts his father about his death. Uxbal holds Ana's small face in his big, fatherly hands and tells her: Look me in the eyes. Remember me. Do not forget me. Uxbal did not want his children to be like his brother who could not remember their father because the latter died when his brother was 10. Uxbal did not even see his father.

The first time he did was when his father's body would be cremated years after he died. He and his brother sold his niche in the cemetery, so they had to cremate him. This scene--which I think is the most touching--would have to be one of Bardem's greatest moments in the film. Inside the morgue, his eyes have that look of a child full of excitement to see his birthday or Christmas gift when the morgue employee opened the body bag containing his father's embalmed body. That look in his eyes made Bardem, a man with a big built and a face full of hair and a hair of an old man, look like Uxbal's young son Mateo in an instant. Uxbal then walks to the body and traces his father's face with the tip of his fingers.   

Biutiful also shows exploitative labor conditions in Spain. In the film, Chinese immigrants were housed in a basement where they all sleep on the floor and without heater during the cold months. African immigrants sold fake bags made by the Chinese and because it was not enough to make a living, they also sell illegal drugs. Uxbal facilitates these conditions, whether directly or indirectly. It shows the flaws in his character, but even with the workers he is caring as he is to his wife and children.

Bardem was brilliant in this film. It should have been his Oscar-winning performance. I do not understand why the Oscars gave the award to Colin Firth whose controlled and consistent stuttering in The King's Speech was no match to Bardem's emotional and gripping performance--he did not even have to speak to convey the complexity of emotion the scenes require. He can tell the story with his eyes. Fortunately, the Jury in Festival de Cannes saw it and gave him a Best Actor Award.

The direction of Alejandro González Iñárritu (Babel, Amores Perros, 21 Grams) should also be commended for some scenes that were difficult to execute like the police raid of African immigrants selling their goods in the street. Many scenes were also shot in long takes, while some were trick shots like the one towards the end when he was talking to his daughter in whispers telling her about the ring. Shot in a long take, the camera moves away from the two characters talking in the bed, pans to the other side of the room then stops at a mirror showing Uxbal's ghost beside the bed while Ana continues to talk to his father as if he were still alive. Ana already has the gift of his father (or perhaps, it only seemed a long take; there might have been an invisible cut when the camera pans in a black space before the mirror. In that case, it's not so difficult to do anymore, no?).

The film was presented in a loop that served a grammatical purpose and a rhetorical one. It could probably signify that not only does life is a cycle but also death. Or that in life, there are little deaths, like when Uxbal had to tell his wife "we hurt each other too much," or when Ige (whom Uxbal asked to take care of his children when he died) left with all of Uxbal's money (I almost died watching this scene); and in death, there is life, like when Uxbal talked to his father the first time in the land of spirits. 

Or perhaps because there were many instances in the film when it all came back to where it started: Uxbal  tried to live again with his wife together with their children but it did not work; he tried to do good but it doesn't erase the fact that he facilitates bad things from happening.

Simple objects were made symbolic, like the mirrors that revealed what is not seen--the spirits of the dead can be seen in them. Thought the writer also used traditional symbols for death like the moths.

In Biutiful, death is so certain yet one can never truly prepare for it--Uxbal knew he would die, tried to tie loose ends but there was uncertainty whether the ties would hold. Death is so certain yet life is not. Perhaps that's the 'biuti' of death.

Or it could be the other way around. Maybe I'll know when I watch it again and again and again for the nth time, with my eyes swelling with tears and I become a father's daughter, albeit vicariously.

 

 

A Review of 'Waray in the City'

Last Saturday, my friend and I went to see the documentary Waray in the City upon the invitation of its director, Noriel Jarito (Rindido, Ba’t Man). We were already running late; I was coming from Los Baños, Laguna and my friend was coming from the faraway land of Caloocan, and the screening was scheduled to start at 10:30 am. When we got there at around 11, however, it seemed like there was no event although there were five or six other people inside the cinema of College of St. Benilde. We did not see any organizers in the venue or even posters. But after a few more minutes, when my stomach began to make noise for food, a staff arrived to operate the DVD player.

Waray in the City is one of the ten documentary films that are products of a workshop conducted by various German filmmakers. The workshop was supported by the Goethe Institut-Manila, Independent Filmmakers Cooperative and the National Commission for Culture and the Arts, Committee on Cinema. It was held at the College of St. Benilde.

The documentary sought to answer layers of questions starting with why the Waray from Samar, his native province, decide to leave their birthplace, perhaps their family as well, and migrate to the City (Metro Manila). But its main story was that of the director’s own journey to the city to fulfill a dream--to make films-- after years of overseas work in Saudi. A secondary narrative was about the Philcoa vendor’s family who migrated to the city thinking that they can earn more money to send their children to school. Perhaps having these two stories is an attempt to show a parallel in their stories; the mother and the director wanted to fulfill a dream. But it got lost with the interviews with politicians and businessman and ‘successful’ Waray from Samar talking about their views on the questions the director posed. In addition, the two narratives were not equally emphasized, the director’s having more reel time.

The common answer given to the question by his interviewees--both the 'successful' and the struggling who all hailed from Samar--on why the Waray leave the province is poverty. Samar remains to be one of the poorest provinces in the country despite being one of the largest, having a big land area with natural resources. I don’t think being prone to typhoon is the only reason that it is poor (one of the interviewees said so)--no, I won’t accept that as reason. And perhaps, the director did not, too, so he sought other answers why Samar is poor. One of those who gave their views was the incumbent mayor of Pambujan, Samar (Noriel’s town) who rants about the former mayor about not introducing genuine change the whole 40 years he was in office. For his part, he tore down the old municipal building and erected a new one. Talk about real change.

Clips from the director’s previous films were also inserted to let the audience see what these politicians do in their province, like the Curacha dance (from This is Where Your Taxes Go). According to the film, this practice has become a fundraising activity by the baranggays. In this gathering, politicians dance and throw money, literally. And you wonder, where does this money come from? Does it really come from the politicians' own pocket? What does it say of us and of our culture that can tolerate this kind of practice?

The director should be commended for his work in gathering a number of Waray in the city for the interviews, but some of those included could have been edited out because some of their answers seem to be the same. What is noteworthy, however, is the contrast shown between those Waray who can be considered ‘successful’ in the city (mostly politicians) and those who remained poor, if not in a worse condition. This is the irony that the film wants to point out: they leave Samar because of poverty only to suffer more of it in the city where they pinned all their hopes for a better life. It could have been emphasized in the documentary had it not been overshadowed by other points. Because of the two narratives the audiences have to follow and the talking heads they have to listen to, there is a tendency to get lost in the film.

As for the director’s struggle, he is uncertain whether he has achieved success in the city. It was shown that he already received awards from Gawad CCP for his film Ba’t Man, that his idol, Peque Gallaga, is his fan, that he directed a full-length film (Rindido, described by the director as a film with violence and a bit of sex) included in the 2010 MMFF, that this film had a theatrical run, albeit with only a few blockbuster returns, that he shook Manny Pacquiao’s hand in Batasan, that he saw Kris Aquino, and that he had an autograph from his idol, Brillante Mendoza.

Perhaps, just like the Philcoa vendor’s life, every day is a struggle. One cannot stop working even if s/he thinks that a hint of success is within reach. For what would light up the fire in your belly then?

At the end of the documentary, the questions the director sought to answer were answered, but he knows the situation remains the same. It is not a crime to dream of a better life, true, but perhaps achieving that dream does not require leaving one’s home, a recurrent theme in his other films. One of the interviewees in the film is correct when he said that the Waray will not go hungry and homeless in their native Samar because of the abundance of resources. It is up to them to harness what is available in their surroundings and make it work for them to achieve their dream of a better life.

Summer Read: The God of Small Things

And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at times like these only the Small Things are ever said. The Big Things lurk unsaid inside. 

Chapter 6: Cochin Kangaroos.

Aside from Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, no other book has compelled me to read it again while I’m still in the first chapter. Until I read Arundhati Roy’s debut novel, The God of Small Things (1997).

At the start of the novel, the readers learn that someone has died and someone has been returned. These two narrative lines are the major cords in which the other strands of the plot are weaved in. The details, however, are revealed fully in the latter chapters, tying loose ends of the narrative while at the same time making these the climax. Little details—clues—however, are littered in several chapters. This technique, which was also used in the film Never Let Me Go, sustains the reader’s interest because the question, ‘what happened?’ has not been answered.

The story is set in Kerala, India, which, a day after I finished reading the novel, I saw in the film Before the Rains. Now, Kerala is included in places I want to go to before the world ends. The way Roy describes it and the house reminds me of Macondo and the house in Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude, sans the characters that are so many you get confused who’s who. In Roy’s novel, the matriarch Mamachi, the sinister spinster Baby Kochama, the TV junkie Kocha Maria, Mamachi’s children—Chacko, Ammu— and Ammu’s fraternal twins--Estha and Rahel--inhabit the house. Sometimes, the untouchable Velutha, a key character who is a worker in the family’s factory and a card-carrying member of the Communist Party, is permitted to put his feet inside the house.

Roy tells this story so beautifully, weaving in issues of the caste system, which laid down ‘Love Laws’ that order people “who should be loved. And how. And how much,” the Communist revolution, domestic violence, and incest among others. At its core, however, the novel is a story of the early loss of innocence of the fraternal twins after they crossed the river one rainy night with Sophie Mol, Chacko’s white daughter with the English, Margaret Kochama. After the incident, all their lives changed: Estha was returned to his father; Ammu left the house to look for work and save enough, so she can get her twins to live with her; Rahel was left at the house but eventually went to the US to marry and work as a waitress. Eventually, the twins returned to the house in Ayemenem to share their grief and desperation in a moment that violates the Love Laws.

This and another forbidden love between Velutha and Ammu explain the idea of the novel's title. As stated in the quote above, the Big Things--namely, the Love Laws, the class difference between the two adults--are left unsaid because they tend to complicate things, Small Things, like Love.

Stylistically, Roy is a genius. I haven’t read any novel in which I stop reading after almost every sentence to savor the beauty of her words, in which I smile at the surprising precision of description (“sour smell of steel,”  “sad hips”), in which I breathe deeply, amazed at the explosion of feelings that her poetry in prose invokes. In addition, the non-linear temporal structure of the novel attests to her mastery of the craft.

The God of Small Things is worth a read, perhaps twice or thrice. Too bad I only borrowed my copy. The second reading would have to be postponed for now. 

(2nd) 10km run at Natgeo Earth Day Run

so happy to find where marloun's car was parked.
i walked for more than 30 minutes after running 10km to look for it.

Finished my second 10km-run in 1 hr and 19 min, a five-minute improvement from my first 10km run in Hyundai (Free!) Run. I ran 10km a day after the Mt. Maculot day climb with my cousins (See story below.). Pain and pleasure all rolled into one. : )

A virgin in the mountain

I always thought that my first climb will be Mt. Makiling. I bear the shame of not having climbed it yet even if I have lived at its foot for nearly a decade. There is an unspoken tradition among soon-to-be graduates of UPLB--that one must climb the mountain that nursed him/her before leaving Maria's land. I haven't done this, perhaps because I haven't left Los Baños. Yet.

Thankfully, my virginal spell in mountain climbing was broken when my cousins and I headed to Cuenca, Batangas to trek in the well-known Mt. Maculot. I was excited at the thought of it but could not really wallow in it days before because of things needed to get done. I was so busy that on the day of the climb, I only brought my wallet, cellphone, a bottle of water and gatorade, a towel and an extra shirt. I know mountaineers would frown at me because as my cousin who has climbed a dozen or so mountains told me, the golden rule in mountain climbing is to make sure that you can provide for your own needs. Good thing I can be a freeloader in the company of my cousins.

We arrived at the foot of the mountain around 6am. We had coffee at Mang Manuel's house, a resident there that offers services to visitors. He built a bathroom outside his house especially for mountain climbers, and for a minimal fee they can take a bath after the hike. Other houses leading to the start of the trail also have signs posted outside announcing that they accept muddied people in their bathroom.

The mountain we had to conquer.
Photo from http://www.panoramio.com/photo/16057536

Before we finally started the climb, we stuffed ourselves with sandwiches and coffee, stretched, and prayed for a safe adventure. As with all other things, the way to the top is difficult. My heart beat so fast I thought it left me already and went ahead on top of the mountain. I thought it would explode and smash the rest of me into million little me. We had to stop at almost all the rest stations because my cousins and I had to catch our breath, wait for our heart to return when it notices that it had left the body that housed it panting, almost dying.

Another difficulty was the slippery trail because the soil in some parts was already eroded, plus the fact that I was only wearing a semi-appropriate foot wear for the trek. I had to rest my life in fragile-looking tree branches and grass that had I not grabbed them in time, I would have come rolling down the trail. Not a good sight.

Some rest stations have a makeshift store with a roof for vendors who have to climb the mountain whenever there are visitors, which is about almost every day because Mt. Maculot is known to be a relatively easy trek that even virgin mountain climbers like me could endure. Mostly though, the weekends are the best time to sell their halo-halo, mineral water, fresh buko, snacks, etc. We started our trek early though so we only had a group of four men from Mandaluyong (labas) on our tail.

When the trees gave way to the tall grasses, my cousin said that we were nearing the peak. We could already hear mumblings of overnight campers and We could already see the whole of the town and the Taal lake and the volcano, which a day after our climb started to become dangerous. Everyone was hyped up to see the view from the top because a sea of fog blurred the landscape.

The campsite near the peak

After a few more forced steps and deep breaths, we thought we finally reached the top--but we only reached the camping site. We had to climb rocks to get to the top and see the killer view. As a reward to ourselves, they laid down at the table all the food in their backpack and we attacked the food like a predator that has not eaten for days.

There were campers when we arrived, cooking their breakfast, and there was a store with a friendly female vendor and her grumpy young son. After a quick bite and taking some pictures in the camping site, we headed to the top. I had to extend my short arms and legs to reach the next rock in order to get to the peak. It was not an easy feat, especially if the fear of falling lurks at the top of my mind. I had to muster enough will to topple that thought and then focus and concentrate on moving my feet and upper body. Once, when I was struggling to pull myself up, my head hit a big rock. My cousins asked me if I was okay because they actually heard the rock hit my skull. I thought my skull broke. It felt numb. But there was no bleeding and I can still walk, so everything's all right, I said.

Then it started to rain. Hard. The fog rolled in automatically, slowly blocking our view of the lake and the volcano. When we reached the peak, we had to hurry to take our pictures because the heavy rain bothered us. Good thing one of us brought a waterproof camera. After a while, however, we gave up minding the rain and just savored the moment that we were on top of the mountain seeing the world in a different perspective--even for a while.

My cousins and I at the top of the mountain, all wet because of the rain.

Fearing the onslaught of flu, we decided to head back to the campsite, took a short rest, said another prayer then proceeded to go down. The group of men from Mandaluyong was already there and asked to take their photo with us. We bid goodbye to our new friends and to the friendly lady in the store and her grumpy son. She told us to come back, but her son told us not to. His father scolded him for saying that.

The trek down was easier. As we defy gravity hiking down the slippery mountain, we met a lot of other climbers. There was a group of middle-aged foreigners and Filipinos, two pairs of lovers, a group of girls, and a soloist. Sometimes we'd greet them first; other times, they'd greet us and ask if it's still a long way to the top. At times, they would commend us for having reached the top, and I have to admit I felt proud of our achievement, especially that only two of us are experienced mountain climbers. We would end our small talks with these nice strangers with a wish to a safe climb.

After 30 minutes or so, we were back at Mang Manuel's lot. It was almost lunch time so we ate whatever was left of our baon. We also bought halo-halo from the neighbor, a bad move given that it was cold because of the rain and some of us have not yet changed to dry clothes. Nonetheless, we ate what we paid for P20.

As with all other first time experience, the climb to Mt. Maculot is a memory to keep. It was a good chance for us cousins to bond together and to encourage each other to have an active lifestyle, especially my younger cousins who sit in front of their computer for almost the whole day.

Me at the top

As for me, I was at home with the mountain, having been living in one for all I can remember. The sight of greens may be a familiar one, but i felt a certain kind of  excitement of having gained a new experience, an experience I hope I'll remember when I finally venture to conquer Maria Makiling's abode soon.

February Entries

I was frequently away from the keyboard last month because of the hectic schedule that I had no time to update this blog. I actually do not like to summarize my experiences in February in one entry, but I promised myself I'll write a separate entry for each. Here is the summarized version first:

Batanes Birthday Getaway

Basco Lighthouse during sunset

My gift to myself is to to cross out Batanes, arguably the most beautiful place in the country, in my lakwatcha list. I went solo again this time after travelling with a big group for some time. The first time I've travelled alone was during my birthday three years ago in Dumaguete, and I enjoyed it so much that I prefer to do it most of the time. This one is a rejoinder to that first-time adventure.

I spent four days in the island, including my birthday, biking and motorcycling (but only as passenger) in touring Batan Island (main island) and Sabtang Island, where I stayed overnight in Chavayan, a UNESCO Heritage Site for being one of the few remaining villages with traditional Ivatan houses. I went to the usual tourist spots and those that only locals dare go. 

But the most memorable part of the trip are the people I met who are practically strangers but treated me as part of the family and friend. I stayed at Chanarian Homestay outside downtown Basco where I met the Merlo family, who owned the house. They were the ones who prepared a small celebration for my birthday. Nanay and Tatay even invited me next year on their 50th wedding anniversary. I told them I'll make sure I'll be there. 

Tatay (the man in 'Tender Care' shirt) is Chanarian's Barangay Chairman.He and his staff joined me in celebrating my birthday. They provided the drinks, pulutan and stories. 

Nanay helped prepare my birthday dinner: Ivatan yellow rice, Lonyes (Ivatan adobo), and stewed fish. 

Kuya Jun, who cooked all the food.

Nanay Marina from Chavayan, who lent me the bike of her son even if she does not know me
and who welcomed me in her home.

Ciemarehiyon Davao 2011

Feb. 9-13, 2011

I hadn't recovered yet from my Batanes lakwatcha when I went to Davao the following week for Cinemarehiyon Davao 2011. I was there as delegate for Calabarzon, and the films for Pelikultura were screened there. Boy, it was uber fun (!!! ), thanks to the Davao Team. I met many talented filmmakers from around the country and saw again those I've met from last year's Cinemarehiyon.

Because of too much partying, I missed my flight on the morning of the 13th and well, went on for more partying with the delegates. The Davao Team prepared an island getaway tour to Talicud Island and Samal. It was good to see filmmakers, curators, and other guests (John Sayles, director of Amigo, and Joel Torre among others) enjoy each other's company.

Pelikultura entries were screened in Cinemarehiyon Davao 2011
Photo by Mannie Magbanua Jr.

The Delegates at Gaisano Mall Cinema
Photo from Carmen del Prado

za gang during closing dinner
Photo from Carmen del Prado

some wild night at MTS
Photo by Abigail Lazaro

with Joey Ayala, Carmen (from Dumaguete) and Juls (her partner)
Photo from Carmen del Prado

with Ara from Cebu and Carmen from Dumaguete
Photo from Carmen del Prado

goofy time with other delegates
Photo from Ronald Gary Bautista

Pelikultura Film Festival

Feb 24-26, 2011

Pelikultura Delegates

On the last week of my birthday month, pelikuLAB put up Pelikultura: The Calabarzon Film Festival. We had been preparing for this since last year, and thankfully it's done and it was successful. Filmmakers from all over Calabarzon went to Los Banos to watch each other's films and learn from workshop resource speakers Remton Zuasola (Ang Damgo ni Eleuteria, To Siomai Love) and Ramon Bautista.

Here are the links to the write-ups on the fest:

http://pelikulab.blogspot.com/2011/02/pelikutura-calabarzon-film-festival.html

http://showbizandstyle.inquirer.net/entertainment/entertainment/view/20110316-325800/Morong-43-film-wins-in-Luzon-fest

http://showbizandstyle.inquirer.net/entertainment/entertainment/view/20110313-325178/Baguio-Calabarzon-welcome-alternative-filmmakers

Audience enjoying the film

Judges (from left) Remton Zuasola, Pam Miras and Teddy Co award certificate to a delegate 

Delegates during their workshop

Abby Lazaro (from NCCA), Directors Remton Zuasola, Jeff Ramos, and Gerry Jumawan

delegates' night out with pelikulab staff

night out with pelikulab staff, guests and delegates