PALH Book Reviews
Hopeful, not happy: The
Centennial Literary Prize-winning novels in English
A Book Review
By Vicente G. Groyon
My Sad Republic
By Eric Gamalinda
2000. Philippine Centennial Commission and the University of
the Philippines Press in cooperation with the UP
6" x 9.25"; 392 pp.
An Embarrassment of Riches
By Charlson Ong
2000. Philippine Centennial Commission and the University of
the Philippines Press in cooperation with the UP
6" x 9.25"; 425 pp.
Voyeurs & Savages
By Alfred A. Yuson
1998. Anvil Publishing, Inc.
6" x 9", 220 pp.
——————————————
Literary contests are heaven-sent boons for creative writers
in the
The
Centennial Literary Prize—first suggested by Senator Blas
F. Ople and endorsed by then-President Joseph
Estrada—sent waves of excitement through the literary community when it was
announced in 1998. Less attention was paid to its stated purpose (commemorating
the centenary of Philippine independence) than its purse: One million pesos to
each of the first prize winners in two divisions (for English and Filipino),
each composed of five categories (novel, essay, drama, epic poetry, and
screenplay). The less fortunate second and third prize winners would walk away
with three-quarters of a million and half a million pesos, respectively. Such
impressive bounty was unheard of, when the country's
most prestigious contest—the Carlos Palanca Memorial
Awards for Literature—could boast only of a piddling fraction of these sums as
its top prize.
The
Centennial contest's emphasis on length also promoted the scarcer literary
forms. Surviving in a tropical developing country is not conducive to the
commitment of time and effort required for producing a lengthy work like a
novel, prompting more than a few people to note that "we are a country of
short story writers." The publication of a Philippine novel is an event
made momentous by its rarity.
Furthermore,
the contemporary Filipino novelist labors under the long, deep shadows cast by
Jose Rizal's double whammy—Noli
Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo.
Given the reverence and deference accorded the national hero, perhaps our
fictionists can only hope to echo his achievements but never surpass them:
"It's good, but it's no Noli."
The
Centennial Literary Prize yielded three new novels in English. One of them was
on bookstore shelves even before the winners were announced, and the two others
were published roughly a year after. Taken together, and considering the
circumstances of their production and recognition, they offer a literary
assessment of how far the
Everybody loves a show
Readers of Alfred A. Yuson's
fiction have eagerly awaited a follow-up to his 1987 feat, Great Philippine
Jungle Energy Café. That novel novel, difficult
and exhilarating in equal measure, took daring risks with language and
narrative, performing storytelling tricks and experiments like so many
illusions in a traveling magician's repertoire. Yuson's
prose is noteworthy for its dexterity and precision with language and its muy macho earthiness and sensuality.
Voyeurs
& Savages satisfies on both counts, bringing readers to familiar Yuson ground. It deploys a subdued version of the technique
he used to great effect in his first novel—that of shuttling back and forth
across time and space without the benefit of transitory devices. Here he weaves
together the lives and concerns of Filipinos and Americans who participated in
the exhibition of Filipino tribes and cultures at the St. Louis World
Exposition of 1904, and their descendants who comfortably straddle several
cultures in the late 1990s.
The tension
between surveyor and surveyed, colonizer and colonized, is the novel's central
theme. Filipinos and Americans observe each other, and themselves, engaging in
private and public acts of self-gratification and humiliation. The question of
who is watching who is rendered moot here, for everyone gets a turn behind the
scrutinizing lens. Kankanai tribesmen on display
stare right back at the Expo visitors, and what moral injustice may have been
done to members of the Philippine exhibit is matched over time—one of the major
characters is a Filipino graduate student cum historian who mentally annotates
American commentary on the exhibit with de rigueur postmodern irony.
The novel
unfolds in short, almost episodic chapters, each one playing on the theme of
observation. There is no plot in the conventional sense of the term, but Yuson manages a dramatic build-up and release in the ways
the past and present are juxtaposed and recalled, each coming to bear upon and
commenting on the other.
Bloodlines
help link the novel's storylines. History scholar Meynard
Aguinaldo is a grand nephew of General Emilio Aguinaldo, whose revolution is dissected by Cornelius James
and rest of the American team sent to visit the
However, it
is Meynard who acts as the novel's unifying
sensibility as he researches on Philippine-American relations, specifically the
Expo and the Centennial hubbub in
A large
portion of the novel is given to generous quotes of the documents that Meynard pores over, interspersed with his semi-scholarly
digressions and asides. The documents' factuality and actuality are beside the
point; much of the narrative momentum in the book's second half is driven by
the guilty pleasure of reading someone else's letters and e-mail. Yuson thereby adds another layer of savage voyeurism—one
that effectively includes the reader.
The novel's
most memorable image comes from the elaborate violation of privacy perpetrated
by Armando (later referred to as 'Lolo Mando'). His
resort, the Blue Wave, is composed of nine wings extending from a circular
central lobby. The entire structure hides a system of false walls and secret
corridors that provide access to the lavish two-way mirrors (manufactured by
one of his companies in Zambales) installed in all
the suites. He lurks in these airconditioned
passageways, tallying the number of couples he has watched having sex. His
compulsion is never explained—it simply is, and appears to have been the ultimate,
unarticulated goal of all his business ventures. Its preposterousness and
implausibility is perhaps the most concrete expression of Yuson's
thesis—that we like to watch, and we live to watch.
Voyeurs
& Savages is the slimmest among the three winners—an advantage, given
that it uses the voyeuristic impulse to sustain interest and develop the
narrative. The vignettes and images etched in each of the novel's chapters
cohere only in the most abstract, intellectual way. They suggest overlapping
spheres of past and present, Filipino and American, observer and observed,
domination and subordination. The novel itself forms the intersection of those
spheres.
The metaphysical nation
Charlson Ong's
first novel is set on Victorianas, a fictional island
west of the
What strikes
the reader in the first few chapters is the distinct air of foreignness that
permeates the novel, despite the familiar, if renamed, elements. The effect of Ong's fictionalization of recent Philippine history borders
on the surreal—what is real and plausible (if local newspapers are to be
believed) becomes fantastic and unlikely. Perhaps Ong's
recasting of the
Yet what
becomes clearer as the novel progresses is that its foreignness comes from the
pointed absence or reduction of Spanish/European influence. Victorianas
is a cosmopolitan, Americanized Asian country. None of the
operatic gloom of the
Ong has commented publicly that in recent years, Philippine
fictionists in English have looked increasingly to Latin American writing for
cues on rendering our hybrid culture, and that in this novel his goal was a
clearly Southeast Asian perspective. The novel's initial foreignness only
indicates how Western images of ourselves have become
more familiar and acceptable. Ong's project is to
reclaim the ways in which Filipinos depict themselves. In Victorianas,
he appears to have concretized the metaphysical in-between nation that Chinese
Filipinos constitute in Philippine society. The imaginary island can be read as
a metaphor for the racial gap that continues to exist, and for the difficulty
of defining "Filipino".
An
Embarrassment of Riches may be described as a political thriller with a
strong satirical slant. With this fictional island-nation, Ong
is free to parody Philippine current events and celebrities and herd them to
logical, if bizarre, extremes, as though Filipinos had lost their sense of hiya and delicadeza
and given full sway to their desires. The plot progresses at the pace of a jeepney rattling down a busy street, swerving to maintain
momentum and slowing down long enough to allow passengers to jump on or off.
The
storyline follows a pattern familiar to Filipino readers—a young man, exiled
from Victorianas, returns home to learn of the
unsavory circumstances of his father's death. It immediately recalls Crisostomo Ibarra's own travails upon his return from
He is
summoned back to Victorianas by an old friend and
fellow Trekkie, Jennifer Suarez Sy,
who needs him to help manage her presidential campaign. Victorianas
dictator General Azurin has died of unknown causes,
and the government is in limbo. JaySy, as she is
popularly known, feels it is time for her generation (the twenty- to thirtysomethings) to begin taking an active part in shaping
the island-nation's history. Jeffrey seizes on the opportunity to end his exile
and to determine the true cause of his father's death and burial. Almost
immediately after his arrival he is swept up in the tumultuous world of Victorianas politics.
It is the
standard Campbellian hero's journey, and here the
magic balm that will revive the ailing kingdom is the promise of change and
development represented by JaySy, who mixes business
savvy with hip GenX pragmatism. Pop and New Age
propel her presidential campaign, among whose key elements are a theme song and
a music video, even if Ong shades her with Maoist
tendencies—her philosophy of development is laid out in a "Blue Book"
distributed to her followers, and the atmosphere of her educational facility,
Liberation Camp, recalls the Cultural Revolution of China. Her GenX pack are ultimately undone by
their own squabbling and the machinations of the older generation, whose
influence and agenda continue to operate in politics and society.
Ong's Victorianas includes the
most colorful elements of recent Philippine history, renamed and hyperbolized.
Brother Mike Verano, powerful, charismatic preacher
and healer with a checkered past (and jacket) leads the rabid Victorianas Moral Restoration Army, resorting to violence
for the cause of morality. Megalomalla, the
cornerstone of the Sy empire,
threatens to become the center of life on Victorianas
in its drive to provide people everything they need under one huge, multi-wing
roof, and becomes the downfall of JaySy's short-lived
presidency when she decides to hold office in its heavily guarded, high-tech
confines rather than the vulnerable presidential palace, Castila
Blanca. Alfonso Ong, rich and shady, builds an
alternative city of the future on his own island off the coast of
Jeffrey
navigates through this world cautiously, if clumsily, dodging grenades, bombs,
and ambushes in every other chapter, and proving more gullible than he thinks
he is. In the whodunit subplot of the novel, Jeffrey falls for various
explanations for his father's death fed to him by an assortment of dubious
characters without bothering to seek evidence. By the time the truth is finally
revealed and the matter resolved, we continue to believe that another, more
fantastic ending is forthcoming.
Although the
novel is set in the mid-1990s and was completed in 1998, it eerily foreshadows
the political upheaval that marked the passage of the "true
millennium". Reading Ong's narrative is like
having an extended déjà vu experience, but one that is comforting rather than
unsettling, because fiction requires logical denouements—luxuries not available
for the unfortunate who must live in the real world.
Embarrassment is the only novel among
the three winners that does not deal directly with the events leading to the
declaration of Philippine independence in 1898. However, its contemporary and
fictional setting emphasizes the fact that revolution, idealism, and staggering
towards nationhood are the recurrent motifs of Philippine history. Ong's novel addresses the theme of the contest, but from
the other end of the Centennial century, revealing that not much has changed in
one hundred years.
Of love, nationalism, and other demons
Loosely based on the life of an enigmatic revolutionary
leader from the Visayas, My Sad Republic is
aptly encapsulated on the back cover blurb: "Love, obsession, loss and
revolution". Because it features a historical figure as protagonist,
readers may be tempted to read it as a novelization
of history, but author Eric Gamalinda cautiously
explains in an afterword that he took liberties with
the mysterious life of the Pope of Negros in the
interest of pursuing a metaphor for the equally obscure Filipino-American war.
In doing so, Gamalinda veers dangerously close to
trivializing Papa Isio, reducing his nationalistic
fervor to unrequited desire. Love, obsession, loss and
revolution, in that order.
A standard
love triangle lies at the heart of My Sad Republic. Dionisio
Magbuela (or Seguela;
historical accounts are uncertain on this), peasant and healer, vies for the
affection of Asuncion de Urquiza, Doña
Madrigal's ward, with Tomas Agustin, mestizo soldier
in the Spanish army.
Isio's reputation as a healer and mystic brings him to the
attention of the eccentric Doña Madrigal, on whose
plantation he finds work. She grants him regular audiences in her mansion,
during which he becomes acquainted with
This
artistic decision may be said to have precursors in Philippine literature, even
in Rizal, as in the plotline that runs through both
of his novels involving Ibarra/Simoun and Maria
Clara, and Isagani's fateful decision at the climax
of El Filibusterismo (which Charlson Ong riffs on in the
climax of his own work). The phrase "my sad republic" comes from
another Filipino classic, Francisco Baltazar's Florante at Laura, where romantic love and
nationalism are intertwined. Gamalinda's freestyle
approach to the rendering of historical events and figures is bound to pique Negrosanons and historians. Papa Isio
is still revered on that island, even by those who have only cursory knowledge
of him, thanks to a revival of interest spearheaded the mid-1990s by Negrense dance and drama artists.
The
complexity of Papa Isio's story lies in his completely
pro-Negrosanon stance. His cause was founded on two
beliefs: that
The arrival
of the Americans complicated matters: while they helped to topple the Spanish
government in the
Gamalinda treads lightly in his rendering of Isio's revolt and the Filipino-American war. All his
characters—rich, poor, hero, villain, Filipino, Spanish, American (especially
American)—are allowed to be sympathetic. Perhaps his most striking addition is
the passage in which Isio encounters a copy of the
United States Declaration of Independence. Discovered in the unlikely
possession of a Spanish friar, Isio deciphers the
document despite the interference of the good father, who insists on a
pro-Catholic translation. Isio naturally is drawn to
the high-flown ideals represented by the document, allowing him to believe that
the Americans will understand what he is fighting for.
Isio and his nemesis, Captain James Smith, are brought
together in this story, the better for them to forge a friendship that will be
tested when Isio turns against American authority. It
is a hokey dramatic device, and works against what could have been an honest
portrayal of one of Philippine history's most colorful nationalists.
Instead, Gamalinda fashions a symphony on all his favorite themes:
love in its spiritual and erotic aspects, mysticism and the occult, the exotic
and the transcendental. He has much to play with here—Isio's
cult was founded on folk Catholicism, and his followers were said to use
amulets that imparted invisibility and imperviousness to bullets and blades. Gamalinda's models are the reader-friendly magical realists
of
And yet Gamalinda's
skill as a fictionist remains undeniable. Republic is his fourth novel,
and he combines a poet's deft handling of concrete imagery with the firm
authority of a storyteller in full control of his craft. It is perhaps the
novelist's aiming for the universal that relegates history to a backdrop for
men and women struggling with their inner demons and passions. This sacrifice
is demonstrated by the several minor characters whom
he personalizes with histories, dialogue, and thoughts and opinions, but
pointedly refuses to name. They are introduced, and we are captivated as they
enact their roles before the author leads them offstage and draws the curtain
on their departure.
Oddly, his
most memorable character is the novel's least
remarkable:
The novel's
prose slips only when Gamalinda's authorial voice
intrudes on the narrative, addressing the reader only in the latter half of the
book, but the device is used to maximum effect in the final passage, where the
narrator springs a surprise on the reader and brings the novel to a resonant
close.
History and sadness
The concept of nostalgia suggests that examining the past
always brings regret—a longing for better things, either in the past, or in the
present. This exercise of commemorating the Centennial through the novel
emphasizes the persistence of specific concerns and dilemmas over one hundred
years. Those who look back will find inevitable parallels between the then and
the now. In the case of the
Voyeurs
& Savages ends with a charming storytelling session between grandfather
and granddaughter that bridges five generations and one century. An
Embarrassment of Riches ends with its narrator-hero back in exile but with
a renewed sense of identity and "awaiting a certain
daybreak". The last sentence of My Sad Republic links past,
present, and future with a giddy faith in the power of storytelling.
It has
perhaps become the Filipino fictionist's obligation to look to the future
despite the dismal reports in the preceding pages of his narrative. Rizal learned this lesson and tempered the darkness that
closes the Noli with the promise expressed in
the final chapter of the Fili. With a history
of conflict, uncertainty, and bad judgments to work with, the Filipino realist
can find solace only in the future. For Filipino novelist, there are no happy
endings, only hopeful ones.
- This
review first appeared in Ideya Vol. 3 No.1,
September 2001
PALH Home/Online Inventory/Order/Links
E-mail questions/comments to PALH@aol.com
This page courtsesy
of Philippine American
Literary House