ML (2018)
“No Laughing Matter”
Director: Benedict Mique
Writers: Benedict Mique (story), Benedict Mique (screenplay)
Stars: Eddie Garcia, Tony Labrusca, Lianne Valentin, Henz Villaraiz
Blood runs red across the screen and the cinema fills with the screams of a horrified audience as “ML” opens the door to a dark room full of secrets and evil. Eddie Garcia takes centerstage as the ruthless, hardened “Colonel” who is stuck in the dangerous times of Martial Law. Looking sharp in his military uniform - with eyes sharper still - Colonel stares down at his captives, rocking to the music of classic metal, assorted torture implements in hand.
The young characters in the film represent a certain attitude towards martial law. Life-of-the-party Jace (Henz Villaraiz) takes the arrogant stance of a die-hard Marcos fan. Carlo (Tony Labrusca), on the other hand, simply believes matter-of-factly that Martial Law served a good purpose, while echoing the common lines of apologists on social media. Meanwhile, his girlfriend Pat (Lianne Valenti) embodies the naiveté of a sheltered generation. Disappointed at the ignorance of the youth, their professor challenges the class to interview people who lived through that time. Carlo, certain but curious, looks for the right person to open his eyes and finds himself at the doorstep of the neighbourhood murderous maniac.
Benedict Mique brings the gut-wrenching terror of the Marcos era martial law to the millennial generation using the language of its target market. “ML” is presented with the edge of a gritty, bloodcurdling psycho-thriller you would not normally expect in Filipino cinema. It is first made digestible for a young audience with visually-satisfying color grading and music that marries retro and millennial. But make no mistake, “ML” quickly turns around and shows its true colors with the unabashed confidence of a seasoned murderer. Spine-tingling music scratch at the ears and claustrophobic camerawork encage the theatergoers in an experience they themselves walked into, the same way the characters walk into the torture chamber they wished upon themselves.
What follows is a series of vomit-inducing scenes that assault the senses which could have easily turned into a gore fest if it weren’t for Mique’s clever integration of parallelisms into the story. Literally, the film uses millennial language as the old Colonel is seen manipulating the characters using a smartphone. But the most inconspicuous move is the use of dark humor. It is an ironic experience to catch oneself laughing hysterically in between shouts of terror, and maybe feeling a pang of guilt afterwards, but that is what exactly occurs in the cinema. The dialogue and narrative is filled with irresistible comedy that the crowd breaks into laughter during even the most violent scene. One can say it is completely disturbing for people to laugh at the misery of others, especially the trauma of real-life martial law survivors, some of whom are in the cinema. Yet that is exactly what the film speaks about - it IS disturbing. And Mique illustrates this by dangling a bait before the viewers, giving them the platform to become oblivious participants in the cycle of violence.
Thus, beyond the blatant on-screen declarations of “it’s martial law,” meaning is made in an interactive process. With their reactions, the crowd themselves demonstrate how the stories of martial law victims are treated by people in present times. Most of all, the film exemplifies the defining role of humor in the deliberate invalidation of serious socio-political issues happening today. The storytelling is not only reflective of society’s insensitivity towards victims of injustice but is also cleverly manipulative of its audience.
There are several other parallelisms throughout the film, such as the Colonel’s senility. The old man is not only portrayed as the archetypal villain but also as an ordinary grandfather who knows affection for his own family. He has moments of kindness and genuine care, but forgetfulness brings out his vicious instincts. The coexistence of good and evil is what makes the Colonel a frightening representation of society. Evil after all, has no single face. In reality, it does not present itself as a monster, but as actions justified by a twisted commitment to a greater end. The Colonel’s savage bouts of forgetfulness reflect the Filipino people’s own tendency to never learn from the past, resulting in acts of cruelty that make history repeat itself. Other scenes in the film’s denouement also resemble events that occurred post-martial law and in recent years. As the fate of the Colonel and Carlo are sealed, we see how society’s indifference breeds injustice - with or without a tyrant.
“ML” is a must-watch in the cinema. While its message is hard to miss in any scenario, the interactivity of the meaning-making process is fully experienced with a huge attentive crowd. There, an additional uncredited character exists: the unsuspecting society portrayed by a crowd so easily swayed into fear, laughter, and grief by whatever happens on screen, unmindful of the implications of their reactions in each passing moment.
What happens inside the cinema is symptomatic of what happens outside of it. “ML” simply reveals how in the timely discourse surrounding dictatorship, many disturbing realities come to light: how effective humor can be used as a distraction, how impressionable people are as a group, how difficult it is to resist an impulse for violence, how ideas can become viral enough to shut down the truth, and how collective memory can so easily be twisted and turned into a lure that will make people willingly give up their own freedom. Thus, like a social experiment, the film stands as a mirror, reflecting how in the current state of the country, spectatorship ironically equates with participation, how strongman politics can wow an audience into submission, and how turning a blind eye to a political manipulation of facts has serious implications on the erosion of present society’s moral fiber.
