QCShorts International 2024 (Program A) REVIEW: A Bolder Vision for Short Films

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Dec 13

Written By SINEGANG PH

QCShorts International 2024 (Program A) REVIEW: A Bolder Vision for Short Films

SINEGANG PH December 13, 2024, 06:00 PM

In this year’s QCinema International Film Festival, we were treated to a new expanded program different from the usual local shorts-only lineup. Living up to its “international” name, the annual local grantees of this year stood side-by-side with short films from Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, and more.

Not only did this add more variety to the much-awaited showcase of the festival, but it elevated the experience of encountering each film. Instead of an expected hexalogy filled with distinct regional stories, there was an opportunity to travel across borders and discover parallels that we would not normally expect to find in different corners of Asia. In addition, there was the QCLokal Shorts Expo, which was exhibited as a curation of non-competing shorts that had works from previous QCShorts alumni like Maria Estela Paiso and Glenn Barit (read our review here).

We welcome these changes, especially since short films in the Philippines (and all across the world) have come to represent the highest ceilings of daring and experimental cinema. Across genres ranging from heartfelt drama to biting satire, the longing for acceptance, and the weight of class struggles, these local shorts continue to prove that QCinema is a lighthouse for talent and razor-sharp reflections of the national condition.

Supermassive Heavenly Body

Directed by Sam Villa-real, Supermassive Heavenly Body follows a 10-year-old Mimibet as she tries to overcome insecurity about her physical appearance, as she lives with a black hole in her torso. For three years, she has been avoiding the pictorial for the class picture. But her mother, played by Meryll Soriano, won't take no for an answer this time.

There’s tenderness and sweetness that comes with Villa-real’s direction. It’s a short film brimming with childhood innocence and sincerity. Through the comedic beats and lighthearted tone, we are presented with a message that resonates deeply about how topics like body dysmorphia, insecurities, and self-acceptance should be addressed at a young age. Portraying the issue at hand, it’s important to note that these challenges often arise as one grows up, particularly when entering teenagehood.

Shekinah Gellegani’s performance as Mimibet captures the innocence, curiosity, and vulnerability of childhood. Self-acceptance can be tough, and the film carefully conveys the message that we are more than our insecurities and struggles. Meanwhile, Jasmine Curtis-Smith portrays an actress who, in satirical The Substance-esque fashion, endorses a beauty regimen to achieve the “perfect” and “beautiful” physical appearance. The story screams satire, but it also opens a conversation about how these kinds of advertisements play a role in conditioning even young minds concerning their bodies. — Ralph Regis

Kinakausap ni Celso ang Diyos

Gilb Baldoza’s Kinakausap ni Celso ang Diyos captures the miserable fate of the Filipino working class through the borderline dissociative daydreaming lens of Celso, a factory worker who — constrained by poverty and whose urgency is reduced by unsafe working conditions — surrenders to God for answers. He accidentally injures his hand, one day, on the job and receives compensation that makes him realize that accidents, even as serious as losing a finger, mean another day of survival for his family. When another finger is not worth losing — and in case of his death, half a million in insurance can save his family from poverty — it’s only a matter of time before he makes a life-threatening decision.

Baldoza fearlessly brings to the surface an oft-overlooked form of systematic dehumanization that is just another ordinary day for the Filipino working class. By blending surreal and daydream-like sequences with gritty realism, Baldoza delves into Celso’s psyche, allowing us to witness his profound desperation and fractured sense of self. These dreamlike interludes reveal Celso’s inner struggle and his mounting detachment from a world that continually denies him dignity and security. Through these moments, we gain a deeper understanding of his despair and the haunting weight of his choices, elevating Kinakausap ni Celso ang Diyos from a social realist film to an evocative portrayal of both human endurance and surrender.

Though Baldoza unflinchingly exposes the horrors of dehumanization, what makes Kinakausap ni Celso ang Diyos worth watching is his compassionate handling of Celso’s character. Rather than leaving him as merely a pitiful victim of circumstance, Baldoza takes care to portray Celso as a husband and father whose deepest wish is to secure a better future for his family. In the end, Celso is not just a symbol of struggle but a man who treasures the sunniest, most memorable moments with his children, hoping each day offers them a happiness beyond his own reach. This portrayal transforms the film into more than a social commentary — it’s a deeply human story that lingers long after the credits roll. — Saund Axl Rose Mendez

Alaga

Grief and loneliness are complicated emotions. They linger quietly, carrying a weight that feels almost unbearable. Like a slow ticking bomb, they simmer beneath the surface, their pain constant and with no clear end in sight. There’s no way to predict when they’ll implode or how to stop them; they simply linger, slowly wearing us down, becoming part of us, reshaping life in ways we can’t always see but feel deeply. In Alaga, writer and director Nicole Rosacay captures this complex nature of grief and loneliness through Gloria, a middle-aged seamstress, and her son, Bayani, who live in a House perpetually in decay.

Gloria’s ‘alaga’ is not only the deformed creature she calls her son, Bayani, but the House itself. Bayani, a fragmented version of the son she once knew, drifts in confusion within the House that binds him as tightly as Gloria’s grief. He exists more as an idea, a broken memory Gloria clings to, allowing her to keep doing the only thing she knows: being a mother. They live in a House that, no matter how much or how often she cleans, lets everything seep back in, like an unshakable weight she can’t escape. The House is a house because it is no longer a home, and never will be. In the end, Alaga is a tragedy of a house that can never be fixed, a home that can never be restored, a place that can no longer return to the way things once were.

Grief is a burden so heavy and seemingly endless, yet largely unseen. Alaga not only confronts this reality but succeeds in visually exploring the quiet weight of emotions that often slip by unnoticed. Rosacay skillfully brings the unspoken depth of grief and loneliness into full view, making these emotions painfully visible and, in her words, “physically grotesque.” Her clear fondness for a Lynchian surrealist aesthetic gives the short a maximalist touch, as she dissects the complexities of grief and loneliness for all to see — exposing truths that an emotionally distant world, especially a society as emotionally infantile as the Philippines, would rather avoid facing. — Saund Axl Rose Mendez

Water Sports

A tragic love story set in a doomed Philippines where water is scarce and urine is the new soft drink. Whammy Alcazaren has mastered the crazy language of film that he introduced in Bold Eagle in this maximalist short. Everything is elevated, from the supersaturated scenes to the heavy, comedic editing; his queer gaze also gives more depth to the apocalyptic romance.

If Japan has Waterboys, we've got Water Sports. Elijah Canlas shines and shows a new, comical side that he pulls off really well. He and John Renz Javier were adorable. “Bawal umiyak, nakamamatay!” is Whammy's dig at the glorification of Filipino resilience, and with the climate crisis being more and more apparent each year, the people become less pliant like the bamboo and more angry like the sun. — Chadson Redondo

RAMPAGE! (o ang parada)

RAMPAGE! (o ang parada) follows the story of three trans women as they try to retrieve their friend’s body from the police. It is full of life, a celebration of queerness and friendship that acknowledges no laws and authorities. Its jaw-dropping costume and production design make you want to eat up all that they are serving, with the cinematography enhancing the experience.

It opens up with raging music from trans rapper Pette Shabu which sets the tone for the rest of the short — a heck of a rollercoaster ride. The actresses all shine in their own ways, but Serena Magiliw radiates in her role, torn between her love for a policeman and her loyalty to her friends. More than the alarma’s and the puksaan’s, RAMPAGE! (o ang parada) is a vibrant work that once again shows Kukay Bautista Zinampan’s vision for trans women representation.

And he clearly had a big vision for this story, which the film’s short duration doesn't give justice to, and I wanted to see more. There is a narrative on state violence especially on queer communities, but the plot was still a little blurry to me. Misogyny and transphobia are still at large, and queer people must stick to fighting those who perpetuate the oppressive systems that attempt to silence them. Together, a ramp for a runway is just another way of stirring up the rampage for a revolution. — Chadson Redondo

Refrain

The life of a struggling artist is commonly depicted in movies. Write what you know, I suppose. But even with their tendency to be insular and self-important, these stories are still relatable even outside of fellow artists and film festival moviegoers. Most of us have to choose between a life of stability or passion. And sadly, the world we live in rarely rewards passionate pursuits.

In Refrain, a pianist in her 30s is your typical struggling artist. She moves from one audition to another, stuck with a bunch of bills to pay. We also see her life back when she was a child prodigy, blessed with parents willing to nurture her gifts and provide her with a happy home in spite of their mounting debt. But there is a darkness within her as she has isolated herself from others, pushing away the people reaching out to her in favor of her piano. And in what seems like a scene straight out of a horror movie, we also watch her lug her heavy keyboard as she climbs up a creepy fire exit. She knocks on locked doors as the lights flicker endlessly around her, hoping someone will open before an unknown being grabs her.

It’s obvious what each plot represents and none of it is new or deeper than it ought to be. What makes Refrain work is how it ties it all together. It shifts between each thread to reveal echoes from the past to the present, showing the effort and stress that takes to maintain passion even in supportive environments. It is always somber even when it is vibrant, and it even grows more frantic. The perpetual push and pull between joy and frustration when trying to make a career with what calls within you is endless. You gotta keep moving, or let it risk catching up to you. — Kieff Iporac