It Takes A Man and A Woman (Cathy Garcia-Molina, 2013)

L is for Laida or for Looking back?

*

Written by Carmi Raymundo
Directed by Cathy Garcia-Molina
Cast: John Lloyd Cruz, Sarah Geronimo, Isabelle Daza, Matet de Leon, Joross Gamboa, Gio Alvarez

Today it is hardly a matter of offering something new and different. Most viewers are not exactly looking for movies that are wiser than they are. Some take pride in liking stories that make them feel comfortable with their insecurities, entertainments that, to put it bluntly, drown in gravy. Star Cinema executives insist on formulas for a good reason, and despite making bold decisions—bold, by their standards—like killing KC Concepcion’s character in Forever and a Day or letting the public sympathize with a kept woman in The Mistress, it’s still difficult for them to let go of grand stereotypes, for in movies neither science nor literature is stronger than theater, and dramatic art, for all it’s worth, has the ability create a cultural identity, one that It Takes A Man and A Woman and its predecessors, A Very Special Love and You Changed My Life, have managed to do in five years.

Identity: big word, as Laida Magtalas would say. But the mainstream, with its consistent output and unwavering worldview, has always had a strong individuality. One could make a study of Star Cinema releases and feel a sense of fullness. Whereas independent cinema thrives on growth and novelty and nerve, studio movies are loath to enter and explore imaginative terrains because they don’t need treasures: they are already assured of the totality of their values. They operate in the same vein as religion, self-aware and self-flagellating, and the people behind them believe that “conviction” is closer to “convict” than to “convince.” Regardless of their deficiencies, however, it’s a mistake to deny them of existence. Being exposed to the intellectual luxuries of art-house cinema and giving it complete trust and dedication—to the point that even flagrant blunders are considered wise—the middleclass mind has the tendency to dismiss the lightness and smallness of ambition on the big screen, attributing satisfaction to guilty pleasure. It’s a gesture that smacks of pride and hypocrisy, a cosmopolitan attitude that wallows in vanity. At times some viewers mistake their erudition for understanding, and the humility to recognize an identity that displays genuine passion, refusing to render it valid or endorse it, is decried.

But there is nothing to lament about as far as repercussions are concerned. What works for Star Cinema is not the quality of each release but the efficiency of technique which allows its team to influence the taste of the moviegoing public. It Takes A Man and A Woman is the third installment from the romantic-comedy series starring John Lloyd Cruz and Sarah Geronimo, and despite taking four years to follow the highly successful You Changed My Life, it’s obvious that their fans are more than willing to wait. Should the long lines at theaters and the favorable feedback from social media be considered, its success is expected, as though writer Carmi Raymundo and director Cathy Garcia-Molina were carrying out duties that could yield only positive results.

Needless to say its success is also earned. Creating the sense of identification that people have with Laida Magtalas and Miggy Montenegro is not achieved overnight. Back then it’s a risky move, considering that John Lloyd is more closely associated with Bea Alonzo and Sarah with Gerald Anderson, and these movies have an air of being done on the side. Raz de la Torre, who introduced the characters in A Very Special Love in 2008, would be happy to know that if there’s a list of the most memorable film characters in the last ten years, one doesn’t need to pause and say Laida and Miggy. The response is instinctive: Laida and Miggy are lovable even at their worst.

Without question the audience is rooting for them, but only on the condition that their reconciliation must not be easy. Miggy’s present is in a shambles. He lost his father, cheated on Laida, and failed his family’s business. Laida has spent a couple of years in New York, and in addition to emotional baggage, she brings home her phony American accent. She agrees to work again for Miggy’s publishing firm, this time to help it close a deal with an international company, to save it from an imminent closure. At this point the Flippage plot already feels overworked, but using it seems to be the only way to renew the elements from the past without too much trouble. With this arrangement, understandably, tension remains between the couple, and the film builds its foundation on that, as Laida tries to be professional and Miggy makes an effort to fix his life.

Everything boils down to proving two things: one, that Laida deserves love and two, that Miggy deserves forgiveness. Having this spine to substantiate their actions, the narrative is at ease exclaiming truisms and aphorisms because there is a paperweight to put them in place. The consequence of this is that the kilig, at the beginning, becomes a formality, a little rigid and uncommitted, and it takes some time before it leaks naturally. The kilig, which is the brio of Sarah-John Lloyd movies, teases by coming later than expected, but when it arrives, peaking at that moment when they sleep beside each other, their faces in opposite directions, and wake up in a warm and tight embrace in the morning, it doesn’t know how to stop. The last thing that Laida and Miggy’s romance needs is reestablishment, but the pleasure of watching them comes from stating the obvious.

While some people complain about local movies being made for foreign audiences, it’s strange that no one is pointing out the clear and indisputable fact that here’s a film whose sensibility appeals only to Filipino viewers. Its humor is very specific, from the nature of the quips to the timing of their delivery. At some point the audience members feel that they’re being too impressionable, too gullible in fact, but a quick thought dispels it and says that there is nothing terrible about the feeling. Frankly, who else can relate to the wonderful music and lyrics of “Kailan”? Who else can appreciate the enjoyment of seeing Zoila and Friends make fun of Laida, and realize that Joross Gamboa (from the Star Circle Quest batch that includes Hero Angeles, Sandara Park, Roxanne Guinoo, and Melissa Ricks) may actually be its most talented discovery? Who else can feel that “Kiss Cam” moment is so contrived yet its spontaneity is also hard to resist? The bureaucracy of love and courtship between Laida and Miggy, the red tape that stops them from being together, the little twists of fate that mark them for life—they are served in raptures. The movie looks back as much as it looks forward. And rightly so because viewers don’t need big reasons: they watch Laida and Miggy for what they are and what they are not. Its imperfections are part of its charm, and along the way it conditions the audience to forgive them.

It is worthy of note that this preference for sugarcoating details and turning trivial scenes into crucial plot points is the same device employed by Be Careful With My Heart, the hit TV series starring Jodi Sta. Maria and Richard Yap, which, apart from being a phenomenal success, is a welcoming change in the kind of stories being produced for television. On the show are two characters, Maya and Ser Chief, whose initial relationship, like Laida and Miggy, is based on work. Now studying to become a flight stewardess, Maya used to be a nanny at Ser Chief’s household. She has taken a liking to him since their first meeting, more so when she gets the chance to interact with him regularly. No one calls him Ser Chief except Maya, and it has a ring to it that the viewers of the show find cute and sweet. Like Laida, Maya is a simple and idealistic girl determined to reach her dreams. Like Miggy, Ser Chief is a charming and sometimes sullen businessman, damaged by certain things from his past. Their story is not driven by villains and histrionics, or by quick pacing and dark secrets. They come to life by indulging in slices of it—sending and waiting for text messages, exchanging glances, preparing coffee, feeling awkward in front of each other—and the result is possibly some of the most exciting and rewarding scenes on television at present.

This style resonates to local audiences who have grown tired of trite narratives and generic cliffhangers because its mundane quality is closer to life, evoking the thinness and richness of it, the complexity of tiny maneuverings, the seeming faintness of fate. The fixation on lighthearted conversations is exerted with care, trying to produce a weighty impression by downplaying the drama and rimming the shallow eccentricities of the characters, the foolishness of their actions adding to their charisma. There is nothing lazy about this; it is one way of exercising control over the many directions that the narrative can take, letting the viewer pick up small details and piece them together to establish emotional links. The sleight of hand involved in making things appear slight, whereas in actuality turns are being made and deviations being observed, is far from groundbreaking, but it merits praise nevertheless.

There is elegance in working out this kind of transcription, and a two-hour movie may find it hard to distinguish excesses from nutrients. Many argue that It Takes A Man and A Woman should have ended in that sequence at the airport, and it might have been more fulfilling that way. It leaves the story on cloud nine, in a state of heavenly spectacle that evokes fantastic fiction, not for its elements but for its effect. All of a sudden time loses its way and sits on a bench, waiting for a breakdown to happen, knowing that only something irrational and perverse can make things right.

And it does happen. In movies singing and dancing is acceptable, but singing and dancing at the airport, where people are rushing to get to their flights and where silence and order are valued more than anything else, is outrageous. Even John Lloyd Cruz in real life is powerless to pull that off. But here it happens, to delightful, magical, and heartrending effect. Laida receives the love she deserves, and Miggy receives the forgiveness he works hard for; and seeing that moment take place by two sets of audience cheering for them, in the film and in the theater, inside the story and outside it, is the peak of being witnesses to their romance, that whatever comes after it will pale in comparison, will be too weak to register, and will only serve as graffiti. There is nothing clever or ironic about their fate—their ending is already known even before they are created—but recognizing its reality creates an impression of finality, because finality is not only the state of seeing the finish line but also of seeing things at their peak, of reaching the most significant point in a journey, of being able to realize that love built on artifice is still love, that any tainted feeling is pure, and that something—some thing—is always a joy for ever.