Tito R. Quiling, Jr.
In most societies, the precarious fabric of social structures is kept fitted by addressing questions and finding solutions to ongoing problems. In an ideal world, resolutions and plans entail little collateral damage in applying discipline and striving for collective progress. But when does the tug-of-war between citizens and leaders create stable governance? More so, how can the merging of ideas and actions come up with a fair consequence for the people and the authorities?
Dodo Dayao’s Midnight in a Perfect World (2020) evokes Orwellian elements of surveillance, anxiety, and submission, relating to cases that raise timely debates in today’s turbulent sociopolitical landscape. Premiering at the QCinema International Film Festival, Dayao’s second feature is an allegory to the government’s callous anti-drug campaign, underlining those who are caught in the foray and the ensuing events under “Oplan Tokhang” by blending these into a horror-themed, neo-noir narrative following a group of young adults, the police, and monsters in varying forms.
With familiar references adapted as fictional elements, Carljoe Javier and Dayao’s story tentatively explores dystopian city living, where citizens rush to get home or spend the curfew hours inside a “safe house” as blaring sirens signal the regular blackouts. Conversely, the filmic world carries ideal—or perhaps—nearly utopian concerns. For instance, the perennial flooding in the metropolis is non-existent, the trains are in better conditions, and the MRT operates round the clock. However, with the curfew that drives people indoors for security, who uses this form of mass transportation during ungodly hours? What happens to people who are caught outside? Apart from the regular blackouts, a persisting question remains: who or what are they afraid of?
Midnight endeavors a cyberpunk route, mentioning Philip K. Dick when drug-dealer Kendrick (Charles Aaron Salazar) interrogates a couple of young adults who were interested in getting a stash of prohibited substances. Their meeting sets the tone for the consequent run-ins with other mysterious figures in the city, causing confusion and distress for the main characters. At times, there are veiled references that accent one’s reading of the film through a current frame. When Jinka (Glaiza de Castro) and Tonichi (Dino Pastrano) finish transacting with Kendrick for a few pills, they panic as they walk past a policeman and members of the Dystopian Death Squad heading to the den. The name hints at the controversial vigilante group in Davao City and the “Diehard Duterte Supporters” that concretized the President’s political base since his candidacy in 2016.
Mapping out fragmented events that evening, several moments disclose the characters’ demons. Jinka uses an alias; her reason unstated, her surname paying homage to one of the familiar victims of martial law. In one scene, Tonichi is sprawled out on the street, high on a “magic star” and ignoring the calls of a concerned citizen. It is revealed that the disappearance of his girlfriend Deana (Patti Lapus) due to a blackout continues to haunt him. Moreover, Tonichi tries to fix his strained relationship with Ella (Dolly de Leon), his wheelchair-bound mother, who stresses how despite the broken condition of their family; no one should leave without saying goodbye.
Still treading on damaged family ties, Mimi (Jasmine Curtis-Smith) visits her father, Fabian (Soliman Cruz) in his apartment. They listen to his remastered songs playing in the living room, but their bonding is cut short as Fabian’s pleas for Mimi to stay fall on deaf ears. Afterwards, she is seen sobbing in the hallway, with Fabian keeping the envelope of cash from Mimi in the drawer with the rest of the stockpile. At the hospital, Glenn (Anthony Falcon) clocks out of his shift, and heads out to see his friends, but delays leaving when a taxi pulls into the emergency room. Converging at the bar that night, they exchange news about the curfew, calling it a “beta version of martial law” given the mounting number of desaparecidos (forced disappearances). Moreover, they all suspect that Deana was a casualty of the blackouts—no trace of herself in reality and on social media.
Expressing their disapproval about the present conditions is done in hushed tones whether inside or outdoors. A cultural reference, this act is reminiscent of some social practices at the height of martial law to elude uniformed authorities and the ones in civilian clothes. On their way home, they meander through the streets, seemingly unaware (or unconcerned) about the time, as they continue their banter about missing persons and their lives becoming more restricted. When Jinka notices the sudden eerie silence enveloping them, and the streetlights flickering before going out in sequence, they start panicking. The nearby café and its customers vanish into darkness, as the stragglers run to a safe house. Tonichi leads the group and they successfully get into one.
However, Tonichi did not get into the safe house and is lost outside, trying to navigate his way in the blackout. Through a phone call, Mimi and Jinka attempt to direct him by re-tracing their steps back to the bar, where he can spend the night. Inside, they meet Alma (Bing Pimentel), an enigmatic figure who orients them about the intricacies of the safe house, having sought refuge in other ones in the past. Possessing an air of haughtiness, Alma ostensibly looks out for them. She answers Jinka’s questions about remembering people’s names, what’s inside the house, even her encounter with a skull-faced entity. It was Alma who pulls Mimi away from her trance with the melting walls, and tries to douse Glenn’s curiosity about a locked room inside the safe house filled with people partying. But as the chaos brought by the blackout fades, Alma becomes indifferent.
The characters’ shared dilemmas conclude as individual moments of futility. Mimi and Jinka venture out to save Tonichi, who finds his way to Deana’s former apartment as a safe place, but all of them encounter these monsters. After multiple efforts to get in, Glenn finally breaks the door open, but is met with a different beast himself. A threading element for the characters reveals how their attempts to protect themselves all end up in vain, with a monster confronting them. In the film, the grim repercussions of the blackouts are tied to many abuses and forced disappearances. In terms of characterization, a more reflective rendering of their personal accounts could have been promising to flesh out the characters’ relationships with one another, apart from hints being dropped in their conversations. Moreover, several instances in the film are fragmented and merit some questions. For instance, who is the man caught in the sludge pit in the opening and closing scenes? Does the faceless monster connote a metaphor for summary executions? Conversely, why are the police included in the carnage? Is Alma an ‘intel’ who leads people to their demise?
Conceivably, the monsters are physical manifestations of danger and enforcing order during a blackout in a dystopian city. Additionally, the symbolic monsters that lurk under the shadowy corners are sometimes the authorities who implement policies, wielding their marginal powers with reckless abandon. Between the 1970s and 1980s, the human rights abuses in the Philippines yielded over 3,000 extra-judicial killings (EJKs) and more than 70 desaparecidos were documented by human rights monitoring groups. In 2020, the EJKs in the current administration numbered around 5,000 figures, covering only the ones in official police operations, and more cases are undocumented. In most regimes, the ones deemed as enemies of the state are the powerless, the outspoken, and the innocent who are repeatedly subjected to the government’s fluctuating motives and accusations.
At the crux of the film, the sequences have rousing moments, albeit falling short of tying the loose ends of the plot. The characters in Midnight are evidently from the upper to middle-class, given the projections of their personal lives and preoccupations. A consistent part of the story treads on their illegal drug use, reminding each other to use the “magic star” to cloak themselves from the strange entities. But how can the “magic star” conceal people from the beasts? Here, the moon vanishing may indicate a form of crossing over from experiencing one’s painful realities to numbing themselves. But in the process, some may become unsympathetic with the plight of the marginalized sectors with related dilemmas, as long as they can keep themselves safe and alive.
One asks if the significance of the safe house as a transitory refuge in Midnight is a ruse intended to ensnare its occupants who become fodder to the monsters, where the dialogue between the characters constantly instills the fear of the blackouts as people keep disappearing. Inside the safe house, their conversations recall how authorities first interrogate the accused, who attempt to affirm their innocence, and how they tried to let their names be remembered before getting “salvaged” (summary executions). While some questions may not be given further answers, filling in details can help conclude the film strongly, as the themes echo recurring issues.
Seamlessly running through the scenes, the film’s cinematography by Albert Banzon and Gym Lumbera renders the spaces in clean and crisp frames. Similarly, the projection of anxiety is heightened by Lawrence Ang’s editing as the characters navigate the city and explore the safe house. Supporting these technical components are the art and production designs by Benjamin Padero, Carlo Tabije, and Nikki Tabije, which augment the dystopian qualities in the filmic world. In Midnight, the spaces may be generic—the locations are described by the characters anchoring on the audience’s knowledge: a café, a library, a gas station. Despite the lack of defined visuals, these places bear an imprint that the structures are both there and not there. No fixed layers of physical features to set them apart; only stereotypical descriptions, but still recognizable. With these visual elements, the ominous filmic atmosphere is sustained through the sound design by Corrine De San Jose and mixed by Nicholas Varela. And extending this thread between silence and banters, the unsettling and stirring moments are accompanied by music helmed by Erwin Romulo, Malek Lopez, and Juan Miguel Sobrepeña. Using these auditory markers, the undertones of terror are firmly conveyed, in line with the overarching leitmotif of monsters, darkness, and disappearances.
The causal nature in most dystopian narratives shows possible realities in society that existing situations may lead to; noting how progress is sometimes selective and problematic. While fictions are often interesting, a common ground for viewers and storytellers are the misgivings about state power that are delivered with conviction. Still, linking recognizable and truthful moments remains a complicated act since there are artistic and production concerns in trying to balance facts and fictive elements. When successfully done, chronicling histories through cinema contributes to producing a consistent sense of understanding as well as a strong critique of the times.
Even in a superficially ideal world, certain decisions and actions by leaders are perceived differently by the masses, depending on how the probable outcome affect them. Supporters see the drug war as a necessary move to lessen ill use and needless deaths. Equally, concerned groups find it excessive and vicious, as the administration’s campaign only goes after the underprivileged sector. However, it is observable how for authoritarian figures, achieving progress in a supposed utopian society is largely framed through mandatory compliance, further imposing fear, and forwarding fabricated stories and misinformation for support, which at times, results in violence. Recalling the experiences of Jinka, Mimi, Tonichi, Glenn, and the others in Midnight, it is the citizens who become prey to the political actions that are executed under the guise of development and safety. In this case, people are seen as numbers and figures, and not as beings with their own stories.
With how histories have mapped out narratives and changes across countries with similar oppressive structures, many situations reoccur: administrative and party conflicts, policy failures, mind-conditioning attempts, forced re-elections, and more mobilizations. Over time, the seams that hold a strongman rule become undone with political unrest. The state weakens, and sometimes, collapses. As with every administration, collective memory stands as a reminder for people to prevent erasures in national history and revisions in shared consciousness. Likewise, there is a hint of darkness possessed by everyone and monsters exist in various forms. But what continues as a mutual sentiment is the prospect of building a more progressive society that may be far from perfect, but the days and nights are not tantamount to deception, terror, and demise.