Lights Off: An Indiohistorian Review of Liway
I have watched many films depicting the Martial Law period, and yet none were as special and gripping as Liway. Of course, the classics such as Dekada ‘70, or the more recent Barber’s Tales starring Eugene Domingo, among others, are exempted from this assessment—they are worth watching and are up there in the line up of films to watch for this 33rd commemoration of EDSA. But I point to the penchant of filmmakers and playwrights to try to depict the Martial Law period in a way that appears contrived and preachy. It is in my opinion that most of these films try to squeeze in too many narratives, desperately trying to drum it down the throats of today’s generation who have been disillusioned by the promise of EDSA. Dekada ‘70 and Barber’s Tales are not like these films.
But Liway is something else.
Perhaps it is because the director, Kip Oebanda, treated the unfolding of the story in the film in a very personal way—that is, in the eyes of a child who grew up in prison during Martial Law. This alone made the film avoid the temptation to ‘preach’ the darkness of Martial Law and instead let everything in the period unfold from the eyes of a child.
With a series of stories that a mother, Liway (Glaiza de Castro), tells her son Dakip (Kenken Nuyad), in prison at night, the stage is set towards this unfolding. Dakip at first grew up with the stories of his mother, who tells him of Liway, the diwata of Mount Kanlaon, and her exploits in the forest. The viewer begins to learn that these stories aren’t what they seem to be, as they are based on the mother’s life. Upon the invitation of a nun, and with his parents approval, Dakip, for the first time, went out of prison to speak to a protest rally in the city.
From this experience he begins to learn that the world is larger than the confines of the prison. His interactions with the people he encountered, his infectious excitement upon going outside prison for the first time, his anxiety of not wanting to leave his mother and father and his opting to go back to prison with them—these culminate into a story that is authentic, tear-jerking, and personal, one that every Filipino could relate to.
But the film’s story is not just Dakip’s. For upon this unfolding of the story, one would see how Dakip, upon learning the complete truth (from the film’s flashbacks), understood how her mother stood for truth bravely amidst the darkness. And as the viewers see this truth, one would be filled with admiration for the strong woman that is Liway. And for a person who sees this film for the first time, and is new to this realization of Martial Law, I’m sure that that person would wonder at the possibility of how many more stories like Liway’s lay untold.
I love how the film attempted to see the nuances of the prison’s surroundings. It’s easy to paint everyone as evil in such a film as this, and the prisoners as good. But one of the highlights of the film was Liway standing up to the misogyny of a male prisoner. Meanwhile, the warden (Soliman Cruz) also was depicted as a good man who treated the prisoners humanely, and tried to hold off the order from his cruel superiors as long as he could.
All of these nuances contributed to the authenticity of the storytelling of Oebanda, that the characters within the backdrop of such an oppressive era are given the choice—to cower in fear or live bravely with hope.
Glaiza de Castro’s singing of Asin’s Himig ng Pag-ibig in the film brought me to tears. Such a powerful song, delivered in the darkness of the prison cell, was Dakip’s reminder that not all darkness lasts. The song calms him, amidst the fear of loss and uncertainty.
The film also brought home the reality of its surrounding milieu. Liway, speaking to the warden, said:
“Minsan, ang batas ay walang hustisya. Minsan, ang sistema ay mapang-api. Ang gusto ko lang naman ay hindi mawalan ng pag-asa ang anak ko, kagaya ng nangyari sa asawa ko.”
And at the climax of the film (I cannot divulge the spoiler), Liway told her son her last goodbye—”Hindi naman magtatagal ang kadiliman.” Five powerful words that would quicken any child told by his mother.
Overall, Liway paints a glimpse of the life of people unjustly imprisoned during an era of impunity under the Marcos regime. But more than this truth, the film is also a story of how hope, no matter how dire or uncertain, refuses to give in and give up. It is the story of a mother’s greater fight for her son, and for her country.
I remember leaving the theater stunned and with swollen eyes. The film is full of heart and hope, and I recommend this to anyone who loves Filipino films, and those whose minds and hearts are still waiting to be opened and enlightened with what really happened to the Philippines during the Marcos dictatorship, with all the national trauma it caused.
After watching the film, I understood why people stood up clapping and cheering for 7 long minutes after the film was first shown in Cinemalaya last year at the CCP. This is bound to become a classic. I rate this film 5 over 5 stars for the sheer bravery and authenticity in this storytelling. If we have more films like this, our country would be kinder and more firm in defending its own hard-fought freedom.
You can still watch the film today at 10:00 pm at Cinema Centenario, an Indie Moviehouse located at Maginhawa Street, Diliman, Quezon City.
