by Elida Dizon
This essay is published as part of the Youth Critics Initiative III, a collaborative mentorship incubator between the 25th Reel Asian Film Festival and TACLA.
I was a teenager in the early 2010s and as any young Filipino-Canadian influenced by popular Asian Youtubers, artists and dancers of the time, I was thoroughly convinced I was going to fall in love with a breakdancer or somehow become one with enough practice. I mean, you can’t really blame my hopeless romantic and impressionable self for thinking that when Filipinos at the time were still riding the high of knowing that the JabbaWockeeZ won America’s Best Dance Crew back in 2008. In reality, I was pretty shy and uncoordinated so learning to dance in real life just wasn’t in the cards for me. But I could still admire choreography from afar. YouTube definitely helped with that and that’s where I first found Keone and Mari Madrid. So thanks to my love for those choreography videos during my formative teen years, I was inevitably excited to find out that Keone and Mari were being featured in the 25th Toronto Reel Asian International Film Festival.
Keone and Mari’s award-winning documentary short film LOLO (2021) doesn’t come as much of a surprise in their career trajectory as much of their choreography through the years has always incorporated a very wholesome storytelling element to it.
In this project, storytelling takes the foreground as Arturo Madrid (Keone’s grandfather) recounts the hardships, wonders and realities of migrating from the Philippines to the US.
The film starts with Arturo facing the sea as he says the words “kung may tinanim, may aanihin”, meaning “if you plant, you harvest”. The words accompanied by the soothing score, and gentle choreography give the intro added poetic dimension, and sets the tone for what’s to come in this reflection of an abundant life made possible by the hard work of one man.
The film breaks away from traditional documentary formatting and allows for a more creative range in this film’s narration. Keone could have used a more typical documentary format consisting of filmed candid interviews with his grandfather and interwoven archival footage to accompany his story. But the flow of the entire film, organized by 3 different aspect ratios signifying 3 eras of his life, made it clear that there was a lot of care put into how to retell and structure his story in a compelling manner.
In the vein of Xavier Dolan’s 2014 film MOMMY, the change in the aspect ratio throughout the film is a deliberate creative choice and reflects the level of liberation and abundance that Arturo feels in his journey. The most restrictive aspect ratio is used in portraying Arturo’s stories in the Philippines where his small village life included sleeping on bamboo mats, bathing in the river and walking barefoot through the mud. Many of the accompanying visuals are set in the present while the narration reflects on the past, so as to juxtapose his past full of hardship, struggle and scarcity with his present-day life surrounded by his prolific fruits of labour.
The mid-range aspect ratio speaks to Arturo’s early years settling into 1960’s America where he works as a low-rank steward in the US Navy, and it’s clear that despite working just as hard or even harder than his counterparts, “the system is built to make it impossible for stewards to climb the ranks.” Despite the apparent cultural and systemic barriers Arturo has faced in his life, his attitude toward struggle is one of unwavering persistence and self-less resiliency, especially as he says things like “our people are never too good, never expecting anything but always willing to do what we have to do for our families to thrive.” It’s an attitude that is all too familiar for immigrants, regardless of where they come from, where they immigrate to, or how long ago their families have relocated from their origin countries.
It’s an attitude I’m all too familiar with, being the daughter of a woman with an industrial engineering degree from the Philippines. An engineering degree that she can’t use here in Canada unless she goes back to school and takes exams she’s already taken, just like Arturo’s many family members through the years. It’s an attitude I’m all too familiar with every single time my parents have instilled in me to not question the status quo, and to simply be grateful for any ounce of success that comes our way — even if it means settling for opportunities that are less than ideal. But again, the film frames these sacrifices as serving something bigger than our own selfish desires, and it is always done in the best interest of our family’s well-being and ability to survive in a country that has sometimes made us feel lesser than we really are.
The last few minutes of the film are shown in a wide-screen aspect ratio, where he takes the time to reflect on the bigger picture of his courage to plant seeds outside of his home country. He says that “we have struggled. I am full of mistakes. But we have kept our struggles to ourselves so you wouldn’t grow up thinking that you are different or any less capable. But even in my old body, I can still learn from younger generations. It’s time we share our stories.”
Ultimately, the film seeks and accomplishes three goals for the viewer in its short run time:
- The film is meant to celebrate the ones before us who have struggled and sacrificed so much, so they could pave the way for us to have a better life.
- The film is meant to inspire. And to remind us that although weeds and obstacles (poignantly portrayed by the creeping hands in the film) get in the way, it is imperative to push through and “push back with love” because that’s who we are.
- The film acts as an invitation to our elders to share our family’s origin stories and calls for the younger generation to listen, and pass the stories on — just as Keone intends to do by sharing this story of resiliency and triumph with his daughter when she gets older.
I am left with a lingering question in writing this review: what do I really think of this film as a Filipino-Canadian? As a person who admired Keone and Mari Madrid in my teenage years, it would be easy to leave my review as is, praising them for the work they’ve done to “share our stories”. Visually, the film is beautiful but I am also aware that there is one part of this short film I feel some tension toward. I’ve found it difficult to admit that because I hold this self-internalized pressure to uplift every Filipino creative that highlights the stories of our elders, but I also carry this feeling I can’t ignore that something about this short film feels very commercial. Not that commercial is necessarily bad. But it feels commercial, in the sense that, despite the film mentioning moments of the Filipino immigrant struggle, the audience has been shown an image of Filipinos that is easily digestible for people outside of our community. We’re shown that the response to our hardship, as is often passed down in our families, is that we Filipinos are proud to be resilient, hard-working and “never too good, never expecting anything but always willing to do what we have to do for our families to thrive.” There’s a part of me that really wants to be proud of that because I know how much we love our families. And if you asked me a couple of years ago, I would’ve felt that pride.
But in reality, I’m aware now how potentially harmful it is to pass down that mentality.
You sometimes have to ask yourself: What happens when we don’t fit that narrative? Would we then be considered “bad” Filipinos? Would we be labelled the “Bruno” of our families (Madrigal, not Mars)? What happens when a member of our community feels compelled to question the status quo? Or are compelled to be critical of the underlying impetus, motivations and consequences found in the pursuit of something as pervasive as the “American Dream”? Would our curiosity label us as “ungrateful” or “disrespectful” for questioning a philosophy that needs re-examining?
As I near the end of my reflection, I linger with the thought that perhaps this interpretation or criticism I hold for the short film has less to do with Keone & Mari Madrid’s creative decisions about the film, and more to do with something in our Filipino culture that needs some attention. So, I welcome the idea that it is worth it to have these discussions when viewing films that explore the immigrant experience. It’s absolutely worth it to ask these hard questions because we don’t get the opportunity enough in our own families and communities to unpack these tensions. In fact, I think some of us are still discouraged to bring it up.
However, it may be remiss not to reflect on the way that Keone chose to end the film. There is that final scene before the epilogue where Arturo says “even in my old body I can still learn from younger generations”. I offer the interpretation that this sentiment serves as the invitation not only to listen to our elders but also for our elders to listen to the younger generation. It’s a two-way invitation to have those hard conversations. I have hope for this to be true knowing that this opportunity is slowly becoming more accessible to the general public, with seeds of this sentiment being explored in popular films that have come out recently such as ENCANTO, TURNING RED or EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE. But again, I call for more! And not just more, but more of that nuanced take that I’m yearning for. If that rings true for any of you, I can only hope that we continue to share those nuanced stories moving forward. Because at the end of the day; our stories are complex, rich and worthy of deeper reflection, discourse and appreciation.
Elida Dizon (she/her) is an emerging Filipino-Canadian writer, community researcher/interviewer and film enthusiast. She has an affection towards understanding and listening to the “why” of people and uplifting the stories of the underrepresented. You can find her watching movies, sharing a bottle of wine with friends, snuggling with her cat and vibing.”
