By Noel Vera
Video
Paradise Inn
Directed by Celso Ad. Castillo
YouTube
No subtitles
CALL CELSO AD. CASTILLO’s Paradise Inn his inversion (and perversion if you like) of Lino Brocka’s classic Insiang — mother and daughter locked in a life-or-death rivalry, only instead of a Manila slum they live in the eponymously named establishment, a nightclub/dive bar/strip joint perched on top of a hill.
Where Insiang and her mother are lost among the teeming thousands jostling for space in urban Manila, Ester Paraiso (Lolita Rodriguez) and her daughter Daria (Vivian Velez) stand exposed from all sides; where Brocka plays up the claustrophobia in his location Castillo plays up the sense of helpless exposure, of agoraphobia.
Never one to shy away from intricate symbolism Castillo thoroughly milks the stripper metaphor. The two women are constant objects of voyeurism, are closely observed literally and figuratively: they are envied for their money (modest but consistent earnings from property and business), their influence (Ester’s lover is Vice-Mayor Anton [Robert Arevalo] who prefers sleeping at Ester’s inn over his own home), Daria’s youth and beauty. Some would like nothing better than to pull them off their high hilltop; others offer money or favors in exchange for a kiss, a dance, a night’s romance…
It’s a sordid melodrama that Castillo somehow transforms with his camera. With the help of veteran cinematographer Romeo Vitug, Castillo gives us the agoraphobia right between the eyes, even with the interior shots. The inn is an entirely constructed object (the reason for this becomes apparent by film’s end) with wide windows at every wall, both first and second floor; the second floor has an outer balcony lining the length of the building.
The design’s purpose becomes apparent early in the film, when Daria is pursued by her boyfriend Al (Dennis Roldan) up to the second floor. He keeps clutching at her, trying to kiss her; she keeps pulling away. In between clinches the camera captures glimpses of the landscape beyond, all low grassed hills and brilliant blue skies, and we’re struck by an odd incongruity: why with such breathtaking outdoors do these people spend so much time inside? If there’s ever such a thing as “paradise” it’s around them — just there for the taking.
But no; the people keep their eyes fixed inwards, pursuing money power sex love like ants battling over a bit of meat, ignoring the indescribable bounty about them; eventually you realize that there’s an electric tension between these people and the space beyond, almost a need to avoid all that beauty. Is it, as Melville writes “… by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation…?” Or is it (as Melville further puts it) that nature “paints like the harlot,” covering up the terrifyingly blank oblivion underneath, and these people are acutely aware of this — more so on top of that wind-whipped rock?
Lolita Rodriguez has enjoyed a career of great performances, from showbiz mother Toyang in Stardoom to impulsive Renata in Ina Ka ng Anak Mo to crazy homeless Kuala in Tinimbang Ka Ngunit Kulang; her flawed and vulnerable yet strong-willed Ester stands alongside the rest, head held high and unembarrassed in their company. Vivian Velez, apparently chosen for her madonnalike beauty and superb figure, also turns out to be a superb actress — her line delivery is precise and varied (even with some of the more intricate lines), her big melodramatic moments underplayed and movingly internalized.
The story involves several subplots, the most memorable involving Sonia (Armida Siguion-Reyna), Vice-Mayor Anton’s wife: Siguion-Reyna draws up the full force of her kontrabida (villain) persona to stand proudly on the side of puritanical righteousness, then with the breathless speed of a cobra strike turns what should have been a personal tragedy into golden political opportunity. Lifelong prostitute Ester and her prodigious protege Daria can only listen in slack-jawed amazement: whores often lead the most lurid of lives and still their sins would pale in comparison to that of most politicians (who for starters could add hypocrisy to their long, long list).
But subplots no matter how well-executed and supporting characters no matter how talented (and the film has a fistful of them), all fall away to reveal the film’s basic conflict between mother and daughter. The finale is a melodramatic outrage if you consider conventional measures of quality, and Syd Mead-style three-act scriptwriting; I call it the shedding of the film’s final veil. There is, after all is said and done, nothing from the outside world that can threaten the two, not really; even the sound of arriving vehicles (a signal of either threatened assault or impending doom so consistent it’s almost a running gag) ceases to leave only the two voices calling out to each other on that lonely mound. Men are drawn to the inn by the daughter’s drop-dead beauty, are driven away by the mother’s resentment; considering the nature of their relationship, how else can Castillo end his film than with something outsized, larger-than-life, and final?
