My Published Articles for ViewsHound: Singapore's Award Winning Film-Iloilo

Monday, September 29, 2014

Singapore's Award Winning Film-Iloilo

My Personal Review

The film Iloilo is an award winning Singaporean movie named after the province where the nanny Terry in the movie came from in the Philippines Teresa or Aunie Terry is played by Filipina actress Angeli Bayani from Manila. This.nanny who was hired by the Singaporean family (The Lims) the protagonist in the film happened to be from Iloilo. She is one of the more than 500 thousands Overseas Filipino Workers (OFW) working for a better life abroad.

This movie has a special place in my heart since I was born and raised in the province of Iloilo. Iloilo is located in the Western Visayas Region in the Island of Panay. It has lots of tourist attractions,such as old churches as well as white beaches. Residents of Iloilo are called Illongos.

The movie reminds me of the pains and trials of all OFW in adjusting to their new working conditions and environment abroad. In the case of Teresa or Aunt Terry, at the beginning of the movie she was very patient and submissive as expected. However, later on, I was so glad that she exercised her authority over the 10 year-old brat,Jiale (played by.Koh Jia Ler).

I like her when Teresa said to Jiale," Although I am just your maid, I did not come here just to be bullied". After this incident the two bonded to the point that in the eyes of Jiale,.Teresa is more of a mother to him that his real mother, Hwee Leng ( played by Yeo Yann Yann). This of course created jealousy, exemplified by the statement of Jaile's mom to Teresa, that she is still the mother of Jiale and she maintains the authority and discipline over her son.

The movie has some funny scenes as well as scenes brimming with love and affection and at the end heart break..The story was set during the late 1990's when the Asian financial crises had affected the financial status and lives of thousands of middle income families in Singapore as well as in other Asian countries.

The father, Keng Teck Lim ( played by Chen Tian Wen) has lost his sales executive job, but hasn’t had the courage to tell anyone even his wife,.Hwee Leng. Hwee Leng is pregnant, but still works so hard as a secretarial clerk in a private company. Their son, Jiale wants attention and has problems with other kids at school, The Lims decided to hire a domestic help. Luckily Teresita or Terry was there to help them .. Teresita hails from the Philippine province of Iloilo (the title of this movie), Her duty was not only be a housekeeper but also to be Jiale caretaker..

Personal Recommendation

I recommend this film to all who loves good movies. Special recommendation to all overseas Filipino workers, their friends and families. In addition I recommend this to all Illongos all over the world.

The film was written and directed by Anthony Chen. The director of photography was Benoit Soler and edited by Hoping Chen and Joanne Cheong. The sound design is by Zhe Wu and the art direction is by Michael Wee, The film was produced by Ang Hwee Sim, Wahyuni A. Hadi and Mr. Chen. The film was released by Film Movement, In Mandarin, Tagalog and English, with English subtitles. The Running time is 1 hour 39 minutes. The film is not rated.

Other Reviews-From Variety.com

The movie is brimming with love, humor and heartbreak. “Ilo Ilo” centers on the inseparable bond between a 10-year-old Singaporean boy and his Filipina nanny while the boy’s parents struggle to weather the 1997 Asian financial crisis. Anthony Chen is remarkably astute in his depiction of the class and racial tensions within such a household, his accessible style enabling the characters’ underlying decency and warmth to emerge unforced. This small but immensely likable gem should find a cozy spot at fests as well as niche European distribution, following its Camera d’Or win at Cannes.

Teresita Sajonia and her ward-Anthony Chen video

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Singapore's Award Winning Film-Iloilo

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