they don't watch movies the way we did

I’ve always loved movies. And I'm lucky to have parents---God bless their souls---who considered movies as a medium of learning.

Back in elementary, usually on a Monday, Mama and Papa would give us money, on top of our usual baon, to embark on a business selling popcorn to our classmates. And because we had sacks of corn from our farm, all we had to buy were cooking oil and the brown supot. Come Saturday, we'd account our money and go watch a movie in Tandag. And if the money was not enough, Mama and Papa would pay for the balance.

Then on the following Monday, the cycle began again.

Watching movies in movie houses has become a lost art, and it saddens me. It’s over 10 years now that Tandag's Timber City and Moonglow Cinemas had closed their doors to cineastes like me. I remember watching movies during the last dying years of Timber City Cinema, braving the heat and cigarette smoke, the scurrying rats the size of cats, and raindrops falling from the holey roof. During heavy rains, a puddle would form at the orchestra floor, in the space between the first row and the screen, and I would watch the movie unfold not onscreen but on the puddle’s reflection.

For me there’s no greater experience than watching movies the old fashion way. Time was when the thought alone of going to Tandag to watch a movie was enough to make me pee from excitement. And upon reaching either Timber City or Moonglow Cinema, I’d lose myself in a visual feast, gawking at the “Now Showing,” “Next,” and “Coming Soon” still pictures that were tacked on both sides of a large plywood. Swirls of smoke smelling of grilled bananas, popcorns, peanuts, and melted butter would fill my nose. Sliced mango and pineapple displayed on tables would seduce my eyes, and it would take a greater resolve on my part to hold on to my extra money---which my parents intended actually for my snacks----because I had decided to use it to buy Hiwaga Komiks at Chona’s Reading Center.

And when the metal gate of Timber City Cinema creaked open, I would run to the ticket booth ahead of the rest so that I would be the first one to enter the movie house and get to choose the prime seat, which was the balcony’s fourth row.

The music would play as people streamed inside. And once the light dimmed, I’d be ready to be transported to a world distant and unknown. But the moment the screen lit up, that was when my heart would quicken because I knew that the lady with a sword would emerge, like this--



or the lion would roar, like this---




or the globe would spin, like this---




And when the movie ended, I would again linger at the lobby, squinting my eyes from sudden exposure to light, to find out if every single still picture was shown in the movie. And if there were some that weren't, I’d feel shortchanged. I was too young then to know that still pictures are taken long before the film goes for final editing and that some stills don’t make it to the final cut.

Watching movies of yore needed focus and undivided attention. A little distraction here and there would mean missing a scene or a dialogue. And because unlike today’s technology where instant playback is possible, I had to “review” the movie, which meant another three hours of waiting because it was always a “double program.” When this happened, it was a painful choice between watching the movie all over again and missing the last trip to Tago. The latter would mean I had to walk with faith in my heart all the way home and make myself part of a live movie where Pitang lived, one that involved flying coffins and starred in by spooky creatures of the night.

The best movie days for me however dated back to the time when Tandag didn’t have movie houses yet and we had to wait for this panel---




Waiting for the Darigold panel was like waiting for Christ’s second coming: We didn’t know when, but we sure knew it would come!

And when the panel eventually arrived mostly during Friday afternoons, we would be restless inside our classroom because we couldn’t wait to go out and tail the Darigold panel as it went around Tago, announcing that a movie was going to be shown.

Chaos would seize every home but all activities ceased at 6 o’clock when everybody would carry either a stool or a bench and head for the town plaza. And there, underneath the acacia tree or at the rotunda where the medium-sized screen was placed, Jess Lapid would pump lead into Max Alvarado’s nose, and then Jess Lapid would whack Pacquito Diaz in the face with his smoking cuarenta'y cinco. As the famous bemustached, arc-browed villain puked blood and breathed his last, we would clap our hands until they turned red and sore.

For the whole week Tagon-ons would rave about the movie, and my friends and I would tell the movie to each other as though one of us hadn’t watched it.

Until this very day, my love affair with the cinema continues. But I wonder when will I get the hang of watching movies in the confines of my home or my room. The concept of home theatre doesn’t appeal to me, and that’s why I make it a point to watch movies every time I’m in the city. Never mind if there are not enough still pictures for me to gawk at, point is, I can relive every single experience I had when I was young.

You say I’m a sentimental fool? Then sue me!

mornings in the 70s

In the 70s, waking up early was a pleasure because it meant joining Papa to buy either carabeef or pork in the market, a rickety building that stood where the present terminal is. The same building would press a woman to death when it collapsed from strong winds in 1978.

Near the left side facing the row of Bol-anon Stores was the meat section. It bustled with activity more than the stalls that sold tabaco in sugong, rice that formed a mound on wooden square boxes marked NGA, and supas like azucarada, rolling bayan, diyoy, binangkal placed inside cellophane bags that hung from tie wires.

My memory is a pastiche of faces and images: Tapingig, like a true war veteran, raising his bolo to chop meat; Nobing Pareja weighing entrails and extremities of beasts; Kulas Acevedo coaxing some tunes from his guitar while graceful smokes escaped from the Bowling Green tucked between his lips; dogs looking up, waiting for bloodstained manna to fall; the huge tree trunk that served as chopping board and whose top was dented from so much hammering; winged insects that ended their vigils in death inside the petromax that sat on an empty table.

I also remember the time when Papa and I would go to the tugbungan for this---




Fish then was sold not by the kilo but by tuhog (fish strung with a nipa midrib).

By the time we went home---with the sun still not out---people were already milling about at the intersection where Villamor Trading, Bert and Patring Yu’s Store, and Botica Curada were located. Many sat by the door of these stores that had yet to open while others stood and shared the day’s news. I would join all of them as we waited for this---




I couldn’t remember if that time there was a bakery in Tago. All I could remember was that pan de sal was brought from Tandag by a humungous, forest green delivery truck emblazoned on both sides with the word CASA. It was huge and tall, like a giant’s coffin.

As the Casa panel (until now it beats me why we call a delivery van a panel.) zipped past, I would run after it ahead of other kids until it stopped at the place where Alondoy now sells pudding. Always at this area!

I would position myself just an inch from the back door so that when it swung open, I’d lose myself in the aroma of oven-fresh bread. And even before I could open my eyes, people would crowd behind me, shouting a babel of monetary values to the man who put bread inside a brown bag made of pattern paper, securing it by twisting it at both ends. (I wonder why bakeries don’t pack bread like this anymore.)

I’d bring the pan de sal to our hovel of a home, which was where Curada’s garage now stands, and there I would open the brown pattern paper bag and engulf myself once more with the sweet aroma.

Waiting on the table was Mama’s tsokolate. Earlier she had put this heavenly concoction in a baterol where she twirled her grooved wooden boloniyo to make the tsokolate di mabugto, meaning thicker, sweeter, and creamier. Poison never tasted so good!

When we were done eating the pan de sal that we dunked into our tsokolate, I’d put the empty pattern paper bag over my head like a sailor’s cap, never really caring if the pan de sal’s pulbos blotched my face.

Ahh, to be a carefree kid in the 70s!