Funny how some cinematic controversies never seem to get settled.
At a recent forum, two groups of young film lovers passionately debated once more the old (and we thought already cold) question, “Who is the better director, Lino Brocka or Ishmael Bernal?” To make things dodgier still, they asked us to help “settle” the issue, which apparently refuses to resolve itself.
Alas, we weren’t very helpful when we put in our two centavos’ worth. Instead of taking sides and engaging in necessarily odious comparisons, we merely commented: Shouldn’t we just be grateful that the ’70s and ’80s gave us two master directors instead of only one?
They and their films could be as different as night and day but thank God for that—and vive la difference! The better director? Lino and Ishma were both UP grads but that’s about their only symbiotic link—that and their mothers, both strong women, so you knew where their sons got their spine and spunk!
Lino was sensitive but masa to the core; Ishmael was a citizen of the world, drinking deeply from different cultures. How interesting therefore, that toward the end of his career, he belatedly “came home” in terms of his Philippine concerns—which included a retroactive activism!
Thus, fiery Lino and archly tart, testy and witty Ishmael eventually found themselves kindred spirits once more. Tragically, however, both filmmakers wouldn’t live long enough to produce their most mature works—and we are all the poorer for it.
The two directors are “conjoined” by yet another psychic link: They were both named National Artists for Film. It appears that the jurors who crowned them with the country’s highest artistic honors weren’t sidetracked by ultimately irrelevant distractions of “good, better, best.” Their films were darned good enough and that’s what counts.
Lino and Ishmael were unique and idiosyncratic in their themes, the styles they employed, and the characters they conjured up to inhibit their cinematic scenarios: Lino’s Everyman dramas were all heart, hurt and anger, seething with righteous conviction and resentment, giving the mute masa a voice that was heard around the world, in gut-wrenchers like “Kapit sa Patalim” and “Orapronobis.”
Ishmael had his own battles to fight, but he chose to wage them, not with a gun or bomba, but with his rapier wit and mastery of the cinematic put-down and perfect squelch.
Who is to say which style was “better”? In both instances, craven demigods were toppled, and long-festering hurts redressed.
Other debaters add these distinctions: Brocka had greater heart and convictions, but Bernal was the better cinematic technician and tactician.
Un-oh, there’s that “better” word again! Finally once and for all, enough.