Khavn de la Cruz: Confessions of a
rock 'n' roll filmmaker

You cannot serve two masters. Many artists who concentrate on one genre naturally observe that convention, which, by its gross limitations, contradicts the very nature of artistic freedom. Yet despite the prevalence of that view — which overlooks such protean artists as Jose Rizal, the Philippines' national hero — some lunatics insist on expressing themselves in a bewildering variety of art forms. And that's the obvious case with filmmaker Khavn De la Cruz, who is also an award-winning poet and musician (i.e., songwriter, guitarist and pianist). De la Cruz, who was formally trained in music and literature at an early age, would be the first to toss the virtue of mastery or virtuosity out the window. As an accomplished jazz pianist, he has since abandoned his training in order to "turn virtuosity against itself," to borrow Rolling Stone magazine's evaluation of Neil Young's guitar playing. In his other endeavors, De la Cruz is equally guided by Miles Davis's principle that there are no mistakes. The filmmaker-poet-musician (who is also finishing a novel) doesn't believe in rules as well — and that goes for the rule that one must first know the rules before he breaks them. And more important, he questions the skepticism and antagonism that characterize critics of all stripes, who forget the infinite possibilities of the universe itself. Speaking of the universe, one thing De la Cruz believes is that the Philippines the potential for world domination. Like other punk-oriented nationalists, De la Cruz knows enough of his country's history to appreciate such facets as the Philippines' now-obscured link with Latin America, Manila's prewar distinction as the pearl of the Orient, and the country's postwar stature as the leading economy in its regionâ — which began to be eroded with the presidency of the current president's father. Psychedelic history From Rizal and Bonifacio to Boy Abunda and Kris Aquino, the Philippines has been troubled by a psychedelic history. The country may no longer be able to recover its place in world politics and economics, but it still boasts of a hallucinatory culture that, as it continues to be distorted, has become all the more riveting — especially to the artists who are soused in that environment. Along with the cultist revolutions of the past, the electrifying poetry readings of that era have long been overtaken by today's electronica, the brisk action of stickup gangs and expatriate prostitutes, among other "sectors." But from the perspective of the Filipino artist, who typically understands this metaphysical country, the fabled world of the past continues to surround the pedestrian present — a rich, if intangible, backdrop to the rotten sensations of today. What a universe this is as viewed by such a third eye! As weird as its presiding leaders. For sure, other cultures share the same tragicomic story. But the Filipino artist would be justified to assert that his is unlike anything else on this planet. This conviction, along with his awareness of the coexisting past and present, explains the Filipino independent filmmaker's tendency to operate simultaneously on those two worlds. That is why a shootout with the soundtrack of a classical Filipino love song makes perfect sense, as Jon Red demonstrated in Astig(matism). Another sensory image would be the actor Yul Servo's serenading a concrete wall in Blood Stew, which shows how De la Cruz's sensibilities are best articulated in film. Because today's high-tech media have already obscured the conventional art forms and have taken over the imagination of the public (especially the Filipino public), the artist who can most effectively promote his agenda in our time is not the poet, the painter, or the musician but the filmmaker. De la Cruz apparently understands this reality, which, of course, does not rob poetry or painting of their timeless urgency. Loftiest theme As a poet and musician, De la Cruz has confined himself to that loftiest of all themes: not politics, economics, or the environment, but love. His musical body of work of more than 300 songs and counting reveals his astuteness as a bubblegum pop miniaturist. But as a film practitioner, De la Cruz comes across with a seemingly different personality. If categories are in order, his knack for jarring, deliberately offensive images qualifies De la Cruz as a 'n' roll filmmaker (although his sensibilities actually accord with a much earlier era: Bunuel's films). One may presume that no rocker has yet gone this far, or this visceral — which is a tame word to describe a set piece by De la Cruz. In Blood Stew, Servo is shown masturbating and pouring his semen in a small cup, which he empties on the mouth of his dead girlfriend. Later he cooks the native dish of the title, the only unusual chunk in the stew being his girlfriend's severed head, which sings a kundiman to close the film. For all its abrasive perversity, Blood Stew is essentially a romantic film. And it is through this genre that De la Cruz is able to weave together his contradictory impulses as a shock artist and as a romantic. Among De la Cruz's 10 other features, Headless continues his preoccupation with the devastating subtleties of love. A film that is more subtle than what the title suggests, Headless chronicles the development and decline of a relationship, as it alternates the blossoming and later worsening interaction between the lovers (portrayed and improvised by Lav Diaz and Banaue Miclat) with the meandering aftermath of that relationship'a bloodied and distraught Diaz wandering around a Manila boulevard. This climax dwells on a long moment, whereas the interior scenes that interrupt that moment move forward. Such time-bending is, of course, nothing new in film language, particularly the epics. But this device seems more eloquent in the smaller scale of independent cinema. At any rate, Headless underscores De la Cruz's preference for concept over visual design, no matter his skill as a film painter. Artistic home movie An early highlight of De la Cruz's filmmaking career is a collection of vignettes that he spliced together into a full-length feature that he named Kamias, after the street in Quezon City where his family lives. Of all his concepts, this project stands out for being an artistically rendered home movie, in which De la Cruz dares to flaunt his literary, musical, and visual talents. As a loosely jointed film, Kamias certainly lacks momentum, which is not at all a disadvantage for anybody who cares little about storytelling rules. Yet, even with this structure, there are moments of great poignancy, as when the De la Cruz family is forced to give up their backyard to utility men encroaching on behalf of the electric company. The typical chaos of Quezon City — the harsh daylight, the heavy traffic, and the endless drilling on the streets — is accompanied by Filipino poetry as recited by its author, De la Cruz, like the ghost of a failed suitor lamenting the deformed true love that is his neighborhood. This is the country that has lost its place in the world. But artists like De la Cruz have been trying to recover that place, by projecting their milieu in its entirety.