Condemned (Mario O'Hara, 1984)

The perfect noir

Mario O'Hara's Condemned (1984) is Aunor at her most baroque and noirish. O'Hara populates the streets of Ermita (the heart of Manila's sordid night life) with pimps, prostitutes, transvestites, with cruising straight and gay men and women; with couriers, snitches, corrupt cops, gang lords, bodyguards, killers. As in Lino Brocka's Maynila sa Mga Kuko ng Liwanag (Manila in the Claws of Neon, 1975) it's a vision of Manila as one of the lower circles of hell. But not a depressed hell, nor a hell where the inhabitants accept their fate with sad resignation-- this inferno crackles with the energy of the damned dancing their way from one torment to another, stabbing and shrieking and fornicating and, well, not giving a damn.

Caught in this seething cauldron is Yolly (Aunor) and her younger brother Efren (Dan Alvaro), who have fled from countryside to city because of a murder case. Yolly survives by selling longstem roses; Efren is the lover of Connie (Gloria Romero), leader of a gang of dollar smugglers. Connie is angry; someone has killed her couriers and stolen half a million of her dollars (a lot of money even by American standards) and she wants it back. Connie comes to suspect Efren, and wants to use Yolly to get to him. Complicating matters is the case of “Boy Rosas” a serial killer who leaves roses on his victims' bodies-- apparently Connie's son Dennis (Toby Alejar) is a prime suspect, as Yolly accidentally saw him knifing his girlfriend.

As in all classic noir the plot (by Jose Javier Reyes, Frank Rivera, and Mario O'Hara) is complex, gets even more complicated as it moves along. O'Hara cuts at a restless, no-nonsense pace; if your attention flags you might lose track of at least one important thread in a tangled web (which matters less than one might think-- here speed and not clarity is priority; O'Hara's keeps the whole ungainly mess from collapsing through sheer forward momentum). The look is dark dark dark-- O'Hara wraps the film in shadows and deep reds; when he leaves the lurid strobes of Manila's nightclubs it's for the harsh incandescents of a merchant ship, where Yolly is brought and tortured.

Condemned is a rich brew of sudden violence, baroque cruelty, sardonic dark humor. Everyone is on the make; everyone is screwing everyone else to try get ahead. When Yolly visits her friend Mayette (Gina Alajar, in a brightly played cameo), the girl promptly coaxes her American boyfriend to buy a dozen roses at two dollars a flower, "if you love me," Mayette carefully warns; the poor sap promptly buys the bunch. “Oh, Robert, I believe you really do love me!” “My name is not Robert, it's George.” “Never mind, it's the same. Thank you!” The exchange shouldn't work, but no one cares-- they're too eager to take the money and run.

What sets Yolly from everyone else, what keeps her human as opposed to the animals around her rutting and ripping each other apart, is her love for Efren. Efren is a handful: sweet, dedicated to his sister, but possessed of a short temper and a fearsome capacity for violence. The two cling to each other like orphans in a dark wood; when Connie abducts Yolly, Efren's fury is aroused, and the stage is set for a knock-down, drag-out, no-holds-barred confrontation between Efren and Connie's entire gang.

(A bit of trivia: writer Frank Rivera who doubled as production designer tells the story of how he was responsible for laundering Aunor's dark blue dress after the day's shoot. The next day when they were to shoot a key scene using the same tunic Frank discovered that his housemaid, who had gone home to her province on vacation, had taken the dress with her-- presumably to show it off to friends and family. 

Frank looked for a substitute and found a light purple dress with color that matched-- but only when wet. To make the clothes match, O'Hara improvised on the spot a moment where Aunor was to jump some thirty or forty feet from the top of the merchant ship into the water-- and that was the star herself jumping not a stunt double.)

In perhaps my favorite scene Yolly confronts Connie in her darkened living room. Gang lord versus flower girl, matriarch versus maiden, Gloria Romero of the '50s Golden Age versus Nora Aunor of the '70s Golden Age-- a face-off cinephiles can only dream about, with Gloria's imperious gestures and insinuating tones pitted against Aunor's implacable stare. Efren may be a handful, but Connie should really have been watching out for Yolly all along-- hell hath no fury like a Nora scorned.

Noir films have many tropes; one of the oldest and most familiar-- and, I would argue, best-loved-- is (warning: details of the ending discussed; please skip the paragraph if you plan to see the picture) the treasure trove of cash or whatever flung to the winds, a signal that the hero (or heroine) does not care for the ostensible objective any more, that the noir world has broken him or her down, and he has opted to step out of the race, whatever it may be, and declared himself free. Used as far back as John Huston's The Treasure of Sierra Madre (1948) and Jules Dassin's Rififi (1955), as recently as Johnny To, Ringo Lam and Tsui Hark's Triangle (2007), but rarely has the moment been as quietly heartfelt (or heartbreaking) as when O'Hara has Yolly do it here. Handful after handful of dollar bills-- so passionately lusted after, so bitterly fought over-- liberated by strong wind to sprinkle the sea. She could have used that money; could have escaped to the provinces with her brother, had a decent life together, but the dream was not to be. If she tosses the cash, it's because there's literally no reason for her to keep it-- it's about as valuable to her as a suitcase full of shit.

First published in Businessworld 12.17.09; edited 2.13.11; edited 5.13.24