Pinoy Cinema is On the Rise

“Pinoy Cinema is On the Rise.”

These words appear at the end credits of my feature film, The Flip Side. They became a rallying cry for a small group of Filipino American filmmakers during the early 2000s, who—despite limited resources and funding—ventured to tell our stories on the big screen. It was an exciting time, when nearly every year a new Fil-Am indie feature was making its way into festivals and theaters. It was unprecedented. Historic. Unfortunately, now that period is becoming forgotten.    

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going to be the Filipino Spike Lee.”

These were the first words that John Castro, future co-writer of The Debut, spoke to me when we met in Intro to Film class in the Fall of 1990. We were two of only three Filipinos in Cal State Long Beach’s Film Studies Department, so we gravitated toward each other immediately. We took screenwriting and film history courses together and quickly became the go-to camera crew in our film production class. But neither of us became film majors to crew other people’s films.

We wanted to direct.

When John and I approached our professor about directing our own short films, his reply was both condescending and unsurprising: “You guys are a good crew, why don’t you just stick to that.” This from a white man to the only two students of color in his entire class. Hell no, were we going to listen to him. Our professor’s lack of support only made us more determined. We both ended up writing and directing multiple student shorts, most notably John’s hilarious mockumentary, Diary of a Gangsta Sucka, which follows the misadventures of Junior Aguinaldo, a Pinoy teen in middle-class suburbia with delusions of gangsters.

We also networked with the few Filipino film students we knew from other colleges in the L.A. area. Celine Salazar Parreñas—whose sets John and I helped build—made the experimental short Mahal Means Love and Expensive at UCLA’s graduate film program. Celine would go on to make many acclaimed shorts and documentaries and become a renown film professor and scholar. Gene Cajayon was based at Loyola Marymount University, where he made the short film that was to be the jumping off point for his Fil-Am coming of age feature, The Debut. I remember being impressed with Gene’s no-nonsense approach to fundraising and filmmaking. We knew he was a talent to watch.

All of us had big dreams of directing a feature after film school, and the race was on to see who’d become the first. Turned out, none of us on the West Coast would lay stake to that claim. Back East in New York, Francisco Aliwalas wrote, directed, and starred in the fun 1997 comedy Disoriented, about a pre-med student who deals with pressures from school, his job, and his family. It is generally considered to be the first narrative feature film made by and about Filipino Americans. Unfortunately, when lists are made of notable Fil-Am cinematic works, Disoriented is unjustly overlooked.

Watching Aliwalas’s film inspired me. If he could do it, why couldn’t I? Given the lack of a Filipino identity in the mainstream media, I knew there was no way any Hollywood producers would make a movie with Filipino lead characters. Without question, I would have to go the no-budget, independent route. I came up with The Flip Side, a comedic satire about three extremely different Filipino siblings trying to find themselves in America. In the daytime, I worked as a substitute teacher, saving every paycheck for the film’s $8,000 budget, I wrote the screenplay in the evenings, and on weekends I held cast auditions.

Meanwhile, John joined forces with Gene to knock out a new screenplay for The Debut, which incorporated themes from Gangsta Sucka. They shopped the script to every film studio in town, but were met with only rejection. Fortunately, they were able to find investors when Independence Day producer Dean Devlin became involved.

The year 1997 not only saw the premiere of Disoriented, but marked the summer that both The Debut and The Flip Side went into production. Despite working on separate projects, my film school partner and I were supportive of each other’s endeavors, giving each other script notes and sharing production war stories. I was excited for both of us. John and I were doing what we’d always talked about in film school during those late night discussions in my kitchen.

Three more years would pass before either The Debut or The Flip Side were completed. Three years of raising money from grants and private sources to pay for post-production and reshoots. Three years of going back to the monotony of our day jobs.

While both films stalled in post-production, 1999 brought Dom Magwili’s romcom feature, Much Adobo About Nothing, which had a weekend run of midnight shows at the AMC Sunset 5. Shot in one apartment over four days, The Los Angeles Times called Much Adobo, “minimalist filmmaking at its most delightful.”

In January of 2000, a major milestone occurred when Q. Allan Brocka became the first Filipino director to screen at the Sundance Film Festival with his funny short Rick & Steve the Happiest Gay Couple in All the World. Brocka—whose uncle was legendary filmmaker Lino Brocka—would turn Rick & Steve into a show that ran on MTV’s Logo Network and direct several LGBTQ films.

Finally in 2000, The Debut made its world premiere at the Directors Guild of America as part of the Los Angeles Asian Pacific Film Festival. I remember the night being a jubilant celebration. The audience laughed and cheered along to the story of Dante Basco’s character, Ben Mercado, who learns to take pride in his Filipino heritage over the course of one epic party. I was particularly impressed with the way Gene shot each dance sequence, especially the powerful Singkil performance. Seeing our images, our beautiful brown faces projected on that twenty-five-foot tall screen was a joyous, transformative experience. Gene and John had done it.

In the following weeks, I finished up my final cut of The Flip Side in time to fly cross-country to attend the Independent Feature Film Market in New York City. Armed with video copies in hand, I went to the IFFM with one goal:

Meet a Sundance Film Festival programmer.

On the last day of the market, Sundance held a panel that was packed with hundreds of indie filmmakers in attendance. During the presentation, Heather Rae, head programmer for the Native Forum section, asked the crowd, “Are there any Native American or Asian Pacific filmmakers present?” Over a dozen directors and I raised our hands. “Come see me after.”    

Heather Rae loved The Flip Side. She fought hard to get my film into Sundance, and got in it did. On January 25, The Flip Side made its world premiere at the Yarrow Theater in Park City, Utah as part of the 2001 Sundance Film Festival. As I stepped to the front and looked into a sea of brown faces, it hit me that this was the first time ever that a Sundance audience was predominantly Filipino. I grabbed the mic and said, “Before we get to the movie, I wanna know: Are there any Filipinos in the house tonight?!” The crowd proceeded to go berserk. I finished up by saying, “If you haven’t figured it out from all the brown faces in the audience, The Flip Side is short for the Filipino side. It also stands for the B-side—or the side you never hear. So sit back and relax, ‘cause you’re about to take a trip there.”

The Flip Side became the first Filipino American feature film to screen at Sundance, and in the twenty years since, it’s unfortunately still the only one. I would be the first to say that this is more a commentary on Hollywood’s lack of diverse programming than a reflection of our community’s filmmaking talent.

In the Spring of 2001, both our features were invited to headline The San Francisco International Asian American Film Festival, with The Flip Side opening the festival and The Debut closing it. Our crews hung out together, Gene, John, and I did joint radio interviews, and the Mayor of San Francisco declared it “Filipino American Movie Week” in all the newspapers. It was the most enjoyable festival experience I had—even more than Sundance. The whole community came out and celebrated us and our films. I felt like I’d come home.

During the months that followed, The Debut crew toured to theaters around the country, winning legions of fans and cementing the film’s status as an iconic Filipino American work. I had a more abbreviated theatrical run with The Flip Side, choosing instead to shop my next screenplay with my newly acquired agent. Unfortunately, I became faced with a reality I already knew: Despite the success of our films, Hollywood producers still weren’t ready to invest in telling Fil-Am stories. Some went as far as to tell me to change my Filipino lead characters to white. Hell, no. I refused to sell out, and I have zero regrets about it.

In the ensuing years, a handful of talented Filipino American and Filipino Canadian filmmakers made features that gained recognition and attracted audiences, notably: Laurice Guillen’s American Adobo (2001), Romeo Candido’s Lolo’s Child (2002), Chris Castillo’s The Sky is Falling (2002), Patricio Ginelsa’s Lumpia (2003), Neill Dela Llana and Ian Gamazon’s Cavite (2005), and Edward J. Mallillin’s Brown Soup Thing (2008).

When the buzz on The Debut and The Flip Side inevitably faded, we returned to regular life. We’d spent five plus years working on our respective films, and still longer touring them. We were burnt out and partially in debt. Gene started a family, John enrolled in culinary school in Hawaii and became a chef, and I endured Hollywood rejection after rejection before being dropped by my agent. I returned to teaching before eventually mounting a new career as an author. None of us made another feature film, which, more than anything, speaks to the lack of support for Filipino stories in Hollywood.

The Fil-Am Cinema Movement of the early 2000s came at a time when Filipinos did not exist on our TVs or the big screen. We were utterly invisible. But a handful of us dared to try to change that narrative. We groundbreaking filmmakers and our struggles are a part of Filipino American history. Seek out our films, watch them, tell others about them. These films—and the making of them—tell our people’s story and struggle here in America at 24 frames per second.

Respect to the new generation of Fil-Am feature film directors who are continuing the struggle today: Mathew Abaya (Vampiriah, 2016), H.P. Mendoza (Bitter Melon, 2018), Diane Paragas (Yellow Rose, 2019), Mallorie Ortega (The Girl Who Left Home, 2020), Patricio Ginelsa (Lumpia With a Vengeance, 2020), Dante Basco (The Fabulous Filipino Brothers, 2021).

Pinoy Cinema is STILL on the rise! Happy Filipino American History Month!

The Party's Just Starting!

Previously on Rod’s blog…My hopes of becoming a published author took a hit when my manuscript Chasing Pacquiao was rejected by an editor at the last minute because she assumed I wasn’t queer. After months of depression and self-reflection, I came out as bi in my essay “Late to the Party.” (I may have also mentioned ube.)   

What a difference a viral coming out essay can make! I’m thrilled to finally announce that Chasing Pacquiao has been picked up by Jenny Bak of Viking Books for publication in 2023! Salamat to Jim McCarthy for working his agent mojo and bringing my manuscript back from the dead/rejection pile. And a huge thank you to everyone who read and forwarded “Late to the Party” and made sure my truth was heard. This new day has arrived because of you!

So, the question folks are undoubtedly asking is, was coming out worth it? To that I say, it’s the wrong question. A more relevant one would be, why should I—or anyone else—be forced to reveal my private life in order to get published? Yes, I now have a book deal, but I should have had one a year ago, and I would have if I’d been judged solely on the quality of my writing. My novel should have been picked up without me having to endure the trauma of being forced out, followed by getting judged and ridiculed by family and strangers alike. Let’s skim the highlights, shall we? Shortly after coming out, I became the favorite tsismis topic of relatives—many of whom I haven’t spoken to in years. A few called me an “embarrassment,” some became bent on saving my “sinful” soul, while others just wanted to rip into me with their hate. One had the gall to ask my wife if I was cheating on her with a man. (Please join me now in a round of WTF??) Yep, that was a special moment of bigotry. Fun times.

When a queer BIPOC author has to withstand such emotional distress just to have a chance at being published, the gatekeepers of our industry need to re-evaluate their methods and motives. Seriously, folks, what are we doing here? Who are we advocating for? No writer owes anyone their privacy—whether they be an agent, editor, or reader. But the storyteller in me wants to believe that certain things happen for a reason. If sharing my truth helped further the discussion on Ownvoices and hopefully prevented other aspiring authors from enduring similar heartbreak, then I’m grateful. Viewed in that light, my coming out was…necessary. I’m hopeful that publishing can become more thoughtful and kinder, while still advocating for marginalized authors.

Now let’s celebrate! I have a book deal! (Still waiting on those ube gifts, people.)  Salamat to my Filipino kababayan who’ve had my back from day one. This is for you. Some day soon, a queer Filipinx kid who is struggling with their identity will see themselves within the pages of my novel and know that their experience is valid. They’ll know that they matter. 

Thank you also to the many wonderful, supportive friends I’ve made within the LGBTQ+ and book communities. Your kind words have helped me through the tough days of pain and self-doubt. As my dear friend and fellow Bi-venger Becky Albertalli is fond of saying, be thankful for silver linings. My list of silver linings is overflowing!

Friends, please follow me on Instagram and Twitter @rodapulido, because the party’s just getting started—and so am I.

"Not the Other"

At the Stop AAPI Hate Rally on March 27, 2021 in Artesia, CA, I read the following poem titled, "Not the Other." I wrote it in reaction to the Atlanta spa shootings in which eight people were killed, including six Asian women. Yesterday, March 29, 2021, an elderly Filipina was brutally beaten on the streets of New York City in broad daylight. Nobody helped her. #StopAsianHate

“Not the Other”

by Rod Pulido

In Atlanta, eight people were killed, their families destroyed.

Another tragedy in a wave of hate we can’t ignore or avoid.

The gunman’s murderous actions were excused away

by the policeman who said, “He just had a bad day.”

Six of the victims were Asian women.

LISTEN to them.

Listen to their cries.

Asian women fear for their lives.

They are terrified and terrorized.

Because of a media that portrays them as hyper-sexualized.

Violence against Asians is nothing new, it’s our country’s age old sin.

It’s as American as the baseball bat used to kill Vincent Chin.

Every era brings new injustices and violence.

From Japanese internment…

To the Filipino workers murdered in the Watsonville Riots.

In 2021, Asians are being hunted, we live in fear and danger.

American history on endless repeat like a CD changer.

We must break the chain of violence.

Asians are not a virus.

Asians. Are not. A virus.

The true virus is hate, and that virus is taught.

Spread by a bastion of bigots that Trump’s America has wrought.

Racism is a symptom…

Of our biased school curriculum.

There is room in the classroom to teach our kids…

About David Ho, a pioneer in AIDS research, and all the good he did.

Or civil rights journalist Helen Zia, who was wise and courageous.

Or labor leader Larry Itliong, who fought for better wages.

If you don’t learn about your Asian sisters and brothers,

You will only see us as “the other.”

The situation may seem hopeless, but there are ways to help the cause.

Elect officials who will enact stricter gun and hate-crime laws.

In books, film, and television, support Asian representation.

And lobby for Ethnic Studies as a requirement for graduation.

To our allies, thank you for joining in our fight for justice.

For Asians will not prevail against hate if it’s just us.

We stand with the Black community who fight against similar threats.

Just as Yuri Kochiyama stood side by side with Malcolm X.

We need allies of all backgrounds, colors, and creeds.

To eradicate the weeds of hate and plant new seeds.

Seeds of peace, kindness, and understanding of cultures diverse.

To grow beyond an America that is hypnotized by hatred like a curse.

There is one truth America and the world must face.

We are all part of the human race.

Asians are not the other because there is no “other.”

We are your sisters. We are your brothers.

Say it with me!

Asians are not the other!

We are your sisters and your brothers!

Asians are not the other!

We are your sisters and your brothers!

Late to the Party

Kumusta ka! And for all you non-Pinoys, howdy and hello! For those unfamiliar with me, you’ve reached the blog of Rod Pulido. (Please take off your shoes before entering.) I am Filipino American, an aspiring YA author, a proud father, and a happily married husband of twenty years to an amazing, loving wife. 

Oh, yeah. I’m also bisexual. 

Welcome to my coming out party! (In lieu of gifts, please donate to an LGBTQ+ non-profit of your choice.)

So, how did I arrive here? Let’s rewind five years.   

During a February, 2016 interview, the legendary boxer Manny Pacquiao made homophobic statements, saying that queer people were “worse than animals.” His comments set off a firestorm of controversy and divided the Filipino community worldwide. As a long-time Pacquiao fan, I was angered by his ignorance, and being a fierce queer ally, I felt betrayed by his homophobia. Pacquiao had been my hero, but I could no longer support him.

Prior to the Pacquiao incident, I’d been mulling over a story idea about a bullied teenager who learns to defend himself by studying the boxing matches of Manny Pacquiao. Finding the premise a bit too Karate Kid-ish, I set it aside for the time being. After Pacquiao made his infamous comments, I realized that my story idea would be much more compelling and timely with a queer protagonist. I imagined a bullied gay teen who learns to fight because of Pacquiao, only to be shattered when he discovers that his hero is homophobic. The premise was poignant and had the potential to be groundbreaking. The story needed to be told, but I wondered if I was the one to tell it. Around that time, the discussion concerning Ownvoices in publishing had begun to address issues involving authenticity and underrepresented points of view. Ownvoices serves to promote stories written by authors with the same marginalized background as their lead characters. I was a big proponent of Ownvoices, but I knew that very few Filipino American authors were breaking into the industry—straight or queer. If I didn’t take it upon myself to write this very Fil-Am story, who would?  

Despite my reservations, I dove into the research. I studied Pacquiao’s matches, I read up on boxing technique, I visited boxing gyms, and even allowed myself to get punched in the face a couple of times to remember exactly what it feels like to get, well, punched in the face. (Spoiler alert: It hurts like hell.) All the while, I interviewed queer friends about their experiences and their views on Pacquiao’s comments. I began to write, and the story poured out of me. I wrote about a pair of comic book geek protagonists, the excitement and innocence of finding your first love, and how unchecked bigotry can lead to violence—themes that intimately spoke to my life experience. To my astonishment, I started to have thoughts and memories that forced me to struggle with my own sexual identity. I recalled awkward boy crushes I’d had when I was younger and romantic infatuations with athletes that I’d long ago forgotten. It’s a bit disconcerting when you realize that as a kid, you admired a certain baseball player more for his cute smile than for his play in the field. Maybe this explained why I’d blush and feel flattered whenever a hot queer guy made his interest in me known.  

I was excited yet shaken by these thoughts. I’d met and started dating my future wife in the 9th grade. She’s the only person I’ve ever been in love with and our relationship is the only serious one that I’ve been in. What would these self-discoveries mean for our marriage? Not much, I decided. I was in love with my wife as deeply as I’d ever been, and nothing could change my feelings for her. So, was I bi? If so, was I now in the closet? I wasn’t sure, but maybe completing the writing would help me figure things out. Spurred on by self-discovery, I set my concerns aside and finished my manuscript, which I titled, Chasing Pacquiao.

Fast forward a year later. On the strength of Chasing Pacquiao, I was able to finally sign with a literary agency. Representation and it feels so good! To my delight, there were a few interested parties. Each praised my emotional and timely storytelling, and a couple of them were even surprised that I identified as a straight cisgender man. I eventually signed with the intrepid Jim McCarthy of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret. After a short period of rewrites, my new agent and I set about finding a publisher for Pacquiao.

During the first round of submissions, we received much positive feedback. Editors loved the boxing storyline, the quirky queer characters exploring their first romance, and the authentic portrayal of Filipino American culture. But a few had reservations about publishing a queer story written by a straight man. All of them ended up passing. I was disappointed and a bit concerned, but still optimistic.

In the second round, we found hope in a young editor who was excited about Chasing Pacquiao, but had a few story issues. She said that if I were open to making revisions based on her notes, she’d love to read a future draft. I enthusiastically agreed and set to work implementing her ideas. She helped me focus the main storyline by suggesting I cut an extraneous subplot and pointed out a few scenes where I could make the dialogue more character revealing. I was grateful to work with her and thrilled about my growing prospects of becoming published.

After reading the new draft, the editor was impressed with the changes and wanted to discuss my project in more detail. I was beyond ecstatic! After years of hard work, the end zone was in sight. Soon, I would no longer have to refer to myself with the dreaded qualifier of “aspiring” author.

The day before her staff meeting, the editor and I chatted on the phone to get to know each other better and discuss the possibility of her representing my project. We shared our pandemic quarantine stories and talked about the manuscript and my inspiration behind it. I felt we were connecting. She was personable and insightful, and I imagined working with her for the long term.

And then she asked me about my home life.

I proudly told her about my lovely wife and how we were high school sweethearts, plus our precocious, yet incredibly messy, son. “Oh,” she replied, “I didn’t realize you weren’t queer.” Her tone had shifted from engaged to uncertain. I began to worry. She expressed concerns that the story wasn’t truly Ownvoices because of my sexuality. I wanted to reply, “It is Ownvoices because not only am I Filipino, but I’m probably bisexual!” I wanted to confess to her about my boyhood crushes and all the times a playground bully had tormented me with a gay slur. How those experiences informed my writing and made it true and real. But how could I? I was still in the process of re-evaluating my sexuality. I hadn’t even broached these very personal issues with my wife, how could I reveal them to a stranger? Even if I did admit my feelings, it would only appear as a desperate stab at credibility. So, I kept my thoughts private, and we cut our talk short.

The next day, my agent sadly informed me that the editor had passed on Chasing Pacquiao. I was crushed and confused and more than a little angry. She’d been so enthusiastic about my writing—up until she found out I had a wife. As the pandemic months passed, I fell into a depression, and the realization set in that my novel might never find its intended readership.

Then one day, during an animated discussion about my manuscript, my wife jokingly said, “Maybe you’re bisexual, sweetie.” That one throwaway comment led to some lengthy, heartfelt, sometimes awkward discussions with her about everything I’d been processing for the past two years. With the help of my wife and another dear friend, I was able to come to terms with being bi. I came out to my family, my agent, and now I’m coming out to you who are reading this. (Okay, if you want, send me gifts! Anything ube related, please.) 

The Ownvoices movement has done much good within publishing. Authors of color and LGBTQ+ writers are getting their books into the hands of readers who are starved to see themselves on the page. But there is also a rarely talked about downside. Closeted writers are getting passed over for publication and are being pressured to come out before they’re truly ready. Marginalized authors with fresh, vibrant voices are being shunted aside, all in the name of a hashtag that was supposed to help them get their stories told in the first place. Who has the right to tell a particular story, and who gets to decide this? These are questions that need discussing, although the answers are rarely as clear cut as publishing’s gatekeepers—the majority of who are straight and white—tend to make them. 

After time and reflection, I have no hard feelings toward the editor. She helped me improve my manuscript, for which I’m thankful, and I enjoyed communicating with her. She was only doing what she believed to be right based on what label I identified with at the time. But therein lies the problem. A label can never tell the full story, never sum up a person’s life experience, and a label should never be the determining factor in evaluating a writer’s work. Chasing Pacquiao is the exact same work now as it was then. Is it more authentic now that I’ve come out? Is it somehow a better story now? The publishing world is at war with itself over these issues, and the casualties are the very same marginalized writers that Ownvoices is supposed to uplift and protect.    

I still have hopes that Chasing Pacquiao will one day see publication. And even if it never does, I feel fortunate to have written it. The creative process helped me come to terms with who I truly am. I now see why I’ve always been such a strident defender of LGBTQ+ rights and why I was so determined to tell the story of a queer teen whose hero lets him down. Still, I can’t help but think about what might have been—for both my manuscript and the Filipinx community as a whole.

Salamat for making it through to the end—and a new beginning. This is such a huge step for me, and quite honestly, I’m afraid for what comes next. There are those who will try to scrutinize my happy marriage, question my decision to come out, or jump on the old fashioned hate pile. I can’t control how others will react. I can only tell my truth. I’ve always been a big believer in truth—both in my writing and how I live my life. 

My journey to reach this point has been filled with struggle and heartbreak, but also self-discovery, understanding, and love.

So this is me. Rod Pulido. Brown, bi, and proud.  

And for the first time in my life, I feel truly free. 

Beyond The Flip Side: What Happened to Me After Sundance

Re-releasing The Flip Side on Youtube has been incredibly gratifying for me. Fans from back in the day have expressed how much the film meant to them and how seeing it again has brought back fond memories of an exciting time—a time when it felt like we as Filipino Americans could achieve anything. The reaction from younger folks who are seeing it for the first time has been great too. Many of them seem to connect with the movie, despite it being nearly as old as they are! This, I think, speaks to the film’s timeless themes and how Fil-Ams are still struggling to be recognized in a country that continually ignores us. 

What’s been most amusing is the younger generation’s reaction to me personally. Due to my ambitions as an author, I’ve been active on Twitter the past few months, getting to know young Fil-Am writers and creators. When I announced the film being on YouTube, I’m sure many of them were wondering who the hell I was. A few even admitted to Googling me! Their reactions were priceless: “How have I never heard of this movie?” “You were at Sundance?” “Wait, you’re HOW old?”  

To be honest, these types of questions, and the memories they stir, were the reason I’ve kept the film in the vault for so long. While Sundance was one of the most exciting times of my life, in many ways it was a bittersweet experience. While The Flip Side crew hung out, went skiing, and took in movies, I was off on my own, going to director luncheons where I was usually the only person of color in the entire room. Plus, it was impossible to get anyone from the mainstream media to interview me. I felt very much alone. As the festival days flew by, I began to suspect that nobody outside of the Asian American community cared about The Flip Side being at Sundance—a suspicion that was confirmed when not a single member of the mainstream media attended The Flip Side press screening. I was crushed. It was such a slap in the face. Few people know this, as I’ve never spoken about it with anyone outside my immediate family. 

My marginalization at the festival only foreshadowed what would happen to me in the following years. Due to my success at Sundance and on the strength of my follow-up screenplay, Hip Hop Don’t Stop, I was able to sign with a top talent agency. In the span of a few hours, I went from being a substitute teacher to a Sundance director armed with an agent and a hot new script. I’d arrived. Or so I’d thought. Hip Hop Don’t Stop centered around the rise and fall of street dancing in 1980’s suburbia through the eyes of two Filipino brothers. It had a diverse cast of characters and a sprawling Boogie Nights-type story. My agent shopped HHDS all around town; I met with many top production companies who were interested. They all praised my dialogue and attention to period detail, and for about one whirlwind of a month, I felt like I was finally breaking into Hollywood. None, however, ended up optioning the script. Most cited vague reasons like it needed to be “more universal” or “more relatable to a wider audience.” I, of course, had my suspicions of what they really meant, but they weren’t confirmed until one particularly memorable meeting. The producer in question buttered me up with the usual compliments, but then went on a surreal rant, completely reimagining my script. He told me it would be much better if the story “took place in a Dead Poets Society-type private school, with the students rebelling against the faculty using this new type of dance called break dancing.” He stopped short of telling me straight out that the leads needed to be white, but I could read between the lines. There aint no people of color in Dead Poets Society. 

After the meetings stopped and the buzz on my script had died down, I had a sobering conversation with my agent. He told me he’d had great hopes for HHDS and was disappointed about the outcome. I replied, “Yeah, you and me both.” Before hanging up, I asked him point blank, “Do you think it would’ve sold if the main characters weren’t Filipino?” He paused, then said, “Maybe… Probably.”

As the months passed, I devoted myself to promoting The Flip Side in a self-distribution theatrical tour. I booked theaters, talked with fans, sold Flip Side merchandise, and spoke at universities, all the while knowing that it wouldn’t last forever. I had to think about the future, about what came next. 

My agent brought to me a “project” that he thought I’d be interested in. “They don’t have a story,” he said, “but they have a title: Booty Dance. They want it to be about kids in underground clubs who grind themselves against each other in the dark. What do ya think?” I thought it sounded ridiculous, but I kept that to myself. In Hollywood, producers bring an idea to several screenwriters, who, if interested, write a script on spec. The producers then pick the one they like most. Basically, it’s an underhanded way to get writers to work for free. I politely declined. With no other real options, I decided to write something “mainstream” that I might be able to sell. I spent the next months writing a fish-out-of-water rom-com titled, Super Model, a cute story about a gorgeous comic book geek who falls into the glitzy world of fashion modeling. My agent didn’t like it. He said, “Maybe you should stick to writing about your own experience.” I replied, “Well, I’d love to, but apparently nobody in Hollywood cares when I do.” 

The months passed, and I experienced firsthand the Hollywood cliche of my agent not returning my calls. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me. I’d done everything right; I’d went to film school, studied my craft, devoted every waking moment of my life to filmmaking. In the span of a couple of years, I went from people calling me “The Sundance Kid” and “The Filipino Spike Lee” to just another Hollywood cautionary tale. I became a recluse—well more of a recluse than I already was. (Ha!) The last thing I wanted was to go to another party where someone would ask me, “Hey, when’s your next movie coming out?” I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d let everyone down: my wife, my family, the cast of The Flip Side, the Fil-Am community. Loved ones would tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that Hollywood just wasn’t ready for Fil-Am stories. I’d nod, knowing in my heart that their words were true, but still wondering about what could have been.

After years of Hollywood rejection and heartbreak, I decided to return to my roots of no-budget indie filmmaking. (Sure, making The Flip Side put me in financial debt, but what other creative choice did I have?) I wrote a mock-documentary about the 10th anniversary of an online dating site titled, IcompleteU.com. The story followed four different couples the site had matched, as well as the site’s homophobic/racist founder. The cast of characters was diverse, the story was timely, and it may have been the funniest thing I’d ever written. To generate word of mouth for indie producers, I entered the script into Scriptapalooza, one of the biggest screenwriting contests in the country. Out of three thousand plus entries, I finished in the top 10 finalists. My prize was free screenwriting software—the same software I’d written the screenplay on. (I can laugh about it now.) Despite my strong showing, nobody wanted to produce it. (Hooray for diversity!) Undeterred, I vowed to make the film by hook or by crook. And then the most amazing and wonderful thing happened.

My son, Alex, was born.

For years, my wife, Marifi, and I had been trying to start a family without success. We eventually turned to adoption. We waited five years without a single sniff from any birth parents, but after nearly giving up hope, we finally got the call. I’d wanted to be a father more than anything; even more than becoming a successful filmmaker. Out of the two of us, Marifi had the more viable career, and we needed her steady income to raise a child. The choice was easy. I became a stay-at-home father. I changed diapers, did midnight feedings, and taught our beautiful boy how to count, read, and write. I became a regular Mr. Mom, and I loved it! Alex has brought us so much joy, and I wouldn’t trade a single moment with him for anything. 

Raising a son meant that I could no longer make my sophomore film. Making a no-budget indie is an all-encompassing endeavor that takes up every waking moment of your life. It just wouldn’t have been possible. But I had an idea. If I couldn’t have a career as a filmmaker, maybe I could be an author. I’d always wanted to write a novel—hell, the writing has always been my favorite part of the filmmaking process—so maybe I could give it a go while Alex was napping or at school. Fast-forward six years, one failed Sci-Fi manuscript, and thirty-plus rejection letters later. If you’ve read my first blog entry, you know that last November I was finally able to land a literary agent. We’re on submission to publishing houses now, but that’s another pandemic-delayed story for another time. 

I’ve always wanted to tell stories, specifically Filipino American stories. After a brief moment of success and a lifetime of struggle, I’m still at it. But the story of Filipinos in the diaspora is one of struggle, and I’m hell bent on telling it. So, next chapter!

PS. I enabled the comment section, so drop me a holler.   

New Day Rising

As a Fil-Am filmmaker back in the day, I struggled to find my place in a Hollywood that has historically ignored us. I made one acclaimed indie film, shopped around a much read script that was never optioned, and eventually my agent stopped calling. Years after The Flip Side, I had to accept I wasn’t going to have the film career that I’d worked hard for and always dreamed about.

I’d never stopped wanting to tell stories, though. If I can’t be a film director, I thought, maybe I can be an author. Easier said than done, right? But after six years of trial and error, one failed Sci-Fi manuscript, and countless late nights learning how to write in the Young Adult genre… kulintang roll… I now have a literary agent! On Monday, November 18, 2019, I was signed by Jim McCarthy, Vice President of Dystel, Goderich & Bourret, one of the top agencies in the country. Damn. As I type this out, it’s still hard for me to believe.

When a handful of talented Fil-Am directors was coming up in the 2000s, I coined the phrase, Pinoy Cinema is On the Rise. The sun had set on that period of my life long ago, but now it’s a new day. A happier one—the kind with puppies and ube ice cream! And with that, welcome to my author website and a second—hopefully more successful—chapter in my life. A big thank you to everyone who’s encouraged me and my writing over the years. I promise not to base any characters on you. …Maybe. ;)

Now, time to get to work.