I make my way along the narrow and portion of Kalaw in Ermita towards a small structure, tucked away, made up of massive slabs of perfectly squared tiled blocks. It looks out of place among the other sights on the street—topless young boys flinging their slippers at each other, other young children begging for alms. It appears, at first glance, like a government office, maybe one of Leandro Locsin’s earlier architectural works. But something’s amiss.
A large statue of Gerardo De Leon stands guard by the entrance. He strikes a pose in the iconic directorial style: knees apart, slightly crouched, with hands held up a few inches apart, as if trying to capture a scene with compulsive precision.
This is the initial view that greets me and all those who visit the recently opened Cinematheque Centre Manila. A project of the Film Development Council of the Philippines, this cinematheque is not the first of its kind in the country, with other cinematheques—small theaters specializing in certain films—already established in cities such as Davao and Iloilo. As the name gives away, the venue maintains a high standard in determining which films ought to be screened; only films of historical importance, experimental nature, and award-winning quality make the cut. The January lineup, in fact, were spearheaded by none other than Maynila: Sa mga Kuko ng Liwanag and A Portrait of the Artist as Filipino, both of which are considered to be seminal works in Philippine cinema.
While the building houses a formal exterior, the centre’s interior contradicts it. All of the walls are coated in a creamy off white hue. Unlike its non-Luzon cousins, this center also operates outside of its film screening endeavors. Thus, there is no sense of procedure inside the venue, save maybe for the building’s second floor, which serves as the storage for different film archives and is unfortunately off-limits to the general public.
To the east of the door entrance is a modest, glass-enclosed souvenir shop that sells all kinds of memorabilia, from restored DVD versions of Genghis Khan, books of Ricky Lee, and even a poster of Himala, with a still of Nora Aunor in her iconic pose right smack in the middle.
To the northwest is the ticket-selling booth to the house theater where a lady is casually accepting the payments of moviegoers for the day’s second to the last film: Joel Lamangan’s Lihis.
Just a few meters ahead of the booth is what seems like a cross between a café and a cafeteria stall. The chairs and tables are neither elaborate nor fancy, resembling the ones used in Perico’s, to be blunt, although they serve their purpose.
Right across the café, however, is arguably the most important part of the center, which is its film museum. This portion of the venue is divided into numerous stations, each marked by a local filmmaking giant’s statue: Lino Brocka, Manuel Conde, Lamberto Avellana, and Ishmael Bernal. Each director is paid tribute to via a slew of rare photographs and a mini-biography screened through a small television monitor next to the statue. Pedestals featuring uncommon and archaic film tools are also set up by the walls. Just a few examples of the objects in reference are a Bell & Howell Filmo 70-DR and a Pathé Webo M Super 16, dated circa 1940 and 1946, respectively.
Outside into the small courtyard are classrooms that are normally used for seminars and workshops on filmmaking. This time around, however, they serve as the setting for the College Editors Guild of the Philippines’ Silid-Aklatan. Discussion on matters such as politics, literature, and the arts are ongoing.
With some time to spare, I contemplate on whether I should watch Lihis, which has by now probably passed the exposition part of the narrative. Eventually, I give in to the temptations and enter the theater. There are roughly only ten people inside. Not surprisingly, it is only of small capacity, much like
CCP’s Dream Theater, taking in about 50 to 60 people.
It is a well-made theater, and strange enough, the experience is a solemn one. There are no nagging audible whispers from children and no laser flashes from immature teenagers. People are bent on watching the moving picture unfold right before their very eyes, regardless of whether it is a splendid film or a horrendous one. It is pure, untainted passion that is at work here.
Photos of the Cinematheque Centre Manila make it seem bigger and grander than it actually is in person. True, it is not as huge and commercially appealing as a mall’s theater would be, nor does it have a Starbucks or a Jamba Juice to ‘supplement’ the audience’s viewing experience. But what the center lacks in its aesthetic-enticing, it makes up for in its undiluted fervor for cinema. This is not for the casual vagabond on the search for his or her next Instagram post. Instead, this is for the enthusiast that is willing to put up with an eight-hour Lav Diaz feature film for the sake of furthering their knowledge on the craft of filmmaking. More than just a matter of personal tastes, though, the centre should be viewed for its true objective—preservation and documentation of the Philippines’ rich cinematic tradition.
