MANILA '83

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Subject: EXCERPT FROM MY FILM FESTIVALS  BOOK -- 

MANILA '83 -- -- WAS MEMORABLE!
Posted: Sat, 25 Aug 2012

Subject: EXCERPT FROM MY FILM FESTIVALS BOOK -- MANILA '83

[previous chapter]

 ... We did finally get to Tokyo where I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and settled down to mull over my extended European adventures --Over Siberia to Paris, ten days in Cannes, two weeks in steaming mid-summer Rome sleeping in a sleeping bag out on the roof of an old house where an American journalist I met was willing to put me up for nothing if I didn't mind the primitive accommodations, a mad thunder storm in Venice that knocked out all the electrical power of the city, several weeks in Vienna, and a near crack-up in Manila. I was ready to stick around Tokyo for a while and count my blessings …

MANILA '83 – VANITY OF VANITIES - --

For the next two years I was totally immersed in the study of Japanese film and in publishing articles on both Japanese and Korean film while bouncing back and forth frequently between these two countries. I was also picking up nice sums of spot cash in Seoul, writing publicity brochures for the new Korean films in English and French, but I didn't get to another film festival until January 1983.  This, however, only the fourth festival of my fledgling festival career at the time, turned out to be one of the most memorable ones I have ever been to in my life! -- the Manila Film Festival of 1983.  I managed to wrangle an invitation to Manila as the representative of a weekly magazine called 'Tokyo Journal' for whom I was then writing film reviews on a regular basis. This festival was the dream baby of the First Lady of the Philippines, Imelda Marcos, the flashy wife of Dictator Ferdinand Marcos.  She had unlimited funds at her disposal, and being a former Philippine movie star and beauty queen herself -- not to mention a supreme megalomaniac and arguably the vainest woman on the planet -- she was clearly interested in promoting her own image by surrounding herself with the elite of the international film community and of entertaining them personally in her own inimitable style. To make a long story short this would turn out to be something like a privileged visit to a week long party at the  Palace of the Queen of Sheba, with Sheba herself running the show.    
The very first day Imelda held a fancy afternoon cocktail reception and press conference for all visiting guests at the Malacanang Palace, which is the Philippine equivalent of the American White House -- only more elegant.  One of the nice things here was that the light white cotton or silk vest coat known as the  'Barong Pilipino', which is the traditional man's garment in the islands, and comes in all kinds of prices depending on the material and finesse of confection, is also recognized universally as formal wear for all occasions.  My first move in Manila was to get one of these for around ten bucks, at the recommendation of a friendly cab-driver, so I wouldn't have to worry about not being properly dressed for social events – the very first one of which was –->bam<-- a visit to the presidential palace sponsored by the First Lady herself!  

Manila with its palm-lined boulevards and overlay of Spanish architecture is really a unique city in Asia and I was knocked out there from day one just looking around and taking in the scene.  The mingling of Spanish, Malaysian, Chinese and other bloodlines has produced some of the most fantastic looking women I have ever seen, and the outgoing friendliness of the woman towards foreigners … but that's another subject beyond the scope of this book.  Suffice it to say that a Filipina beauty by the name of Tetchie Agbayani had been featured as a nude centerfold the preceding year in the German edition of PLAYBOY, and because of this international distinction had become a kind of national treasure proudly referred to by one and all as 'The Body Beautiful'.  Unashamed sex is in the air everywhere in Manila and is kind of taken for granted by the locals, but for the uninitiated Western visitor just walking down the street – especially a street like M.S. De Pillar in the heart of 'The Tourist Belt' (i.e., the Sex Belt)– can be an erotic experience all by itself.  Porno films, of which there are countless numbers, are referred to by a much nicer word, 'bold films'.  How can you not love a country that calls pornography 'bold'? 

But enough of boldness.  The showcase film of the festival was the Asian premiere of Richard Attenborough's hagiographic masterpiece, 'Gandhi', (Oscar sweeper that year) with both Attenborough and his main actor, Ben Kingsley, in high profile attendance. Other celebrities who turned up during the week included Germans Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski, American actor Robert Duvall (just passing through), French actress Dominique Sanda, old time Hollywood stars Alexis Smith and Virginia Mayo, and Hollywood pretty boy suntan Adonis George Hamilton, who seemed to have a thing going with the First Lady, dancing with her all the time at the parties and always seated at her table ... 
Incidentally, one never saw President Marcos until the closing gala on the last night when he took the stage to make a ponderously boring speech, and it was said that he never appears in public together with the First Lady so that, just in case there might be an assassination attempt, at least one of them will survive.  The whole atmosphere at this festival, attended by many bigwigs of international film business as well as the stars, was kind of surrealistic if you can imagine surrealism with palm trees, balmy breezes, coconuts, and beautiful women --- and what was unusual for a festival of this magnitude, was that it was very easy to mix informally with just about any of the celebrities there in the hotel lobbies, by poolside, or at special events and screenings. 

The main venue for the festival screenings and press conferences was a spanking new complex of concrete buildings of various types which had been constructed just offshore in Manila Bay.  This was called the New Manila Expo Center and one of the showpieces was an extravagant new hotel with a giant waterfall in the middle of the lobby that looked like a transplant from Las Vegas.  It was rumored that, as the project was being rushed to completion so it could be ready in time for Imelda's film festival, a number of workers had gotten killed in accidents due to lax safety measures, and that to save time their cadavers had just been mixed in with the cement.  I know this sounds pretty bizarre but many locals in Manila were ready to swear by it.  Of course when a lady who prides herself on her two hundred pairs of shoes and has a mad gleam in her eyes all the time is in charge, you never can tell. 

The one big party for all guests – five hundred at least, maybe twice that – which  stands out most in my mind from that magical week was an outdoor evening on the grounds of an old Spanish fortress, catered with unbelievable mountains of food loading down tables all over the place, and exotic tropical drinks in coconut shells served by beautiful young Filipinas clad in clinging sarongs circulating through the crowd all the time.   The entertainment was a spectacular show on a gigantic stage presenting the entire history of the Philippines in dance and song – dance numbers worthy of a Busby Berkeley musical, and the overall staging, costumery, lighting and everything else, the equivalent of the biggest and best show you might ever get to see in Las Vegas. Just mind blowing.  There was also a major fireworks display after that, long lasting, and dancing far into the night to a variety of excellent Philippine bands. Among  familiar faces in the crowd, familiar to me anyhow as an old Hollywood movies buff, I recognized special festival guests Alexis Smith and Virginia Mayo who were standing together having a drink, went over, paid my respects and clinked glasses with them.  They both seemed pleased to be recognized without needing somebody to explain who they were. One final image I have is of Robert Duvall cutting a very fancy rug out on the dance-floor with his dance partner when the Spanish Paso Dobles were being played.  Mr. Duvall is apparently a past master of this noble ballroom dance form

Outrageous German actor Klaus Kinski had grown his blonde hair about a foot long and it hung down from his head to his shoulders or swung around like a mop as he flitted around frenetically.  One day I ran into Kinski at the poolside of the Manila Hotel, the hotel in which General Mac Arthur had for years maintained a permanent suite -- and thought it might be fun to have a chat with him.  I greeted him in German – 'Guten Tag Klaus' – which stopped him in his tracks for a second, but when he found out I was an American journalist he dropped into fluent rasping four-letter English, telling me exactly what he thought of f-----g journalists in no uncertain terms, and didn't give a shit whether I liked 'Fitzcarraldo'' (the film that he and director Werner Herzog were there to promote), or not.  Our chat, such as it was, probably didn't last more than ten minutes but, during this brief interlude he must have gone up the dresses or grabbed the hind quarters or breasts of at least three passing Filipina waitresses – with a mad whoop of glee each time.  I concluded that Mr. Kinski was insane and not worth any more of my time.  Undoubtedly the feeling was mutual since I had nothing for him to grab.   

Actress Alexis Smith at sixty, was still the kind of woman to turn a man's head when she entered a room and I had the pleasure of a long friendly chat with her one afternoon when she was sitting around waiting to be interviewed for Australian television.  The corpulent  Australian interviewer was one of these walking encyclopedias of American film lore who could tell the actress all kinds of things she had herself forgotten about her own career – like who her co-stars or minor actors or lighting directors were on certain obscure films, and things like that, and she was quite impressed with his erudition. Alexis while never a superstar like contemporaries of hers such as Bette Davis or Lana Turner was, nevertheless, an elegant leading lady of some note playing opposite such leading men as Errol Flynn, Clark Gable and Cary Grant and under some of the top directors such as Michael Curtiz, Mervin Leroy and Joseph Losey.

VIRGINIA MAYO in her Hollywood hey-day had been a super-foxy multi-curvaceous mouth-watering blond bombshell in many forties movies and was Cagney’s sassy gun moll in "White Heat” as late as 1951, but thirty years later Virginia had aged  -- not, would I say badly, but the sexiness had faded away completely to where she just looked like anybody’s sweet pretty old granny living next door. She was a very nice person, unassuming and easy to talk with, and didn’t mind reminiscing a bit, but you just didn’t get the feeling you were in the presence of a one-time Hollywood star and sex-symbol.  All that was clearly long behind her and she seemed rather surprised that she was still well-enough remembered to get asked to a big festival like this with contemporary celebrities hopping around all over the place. 

With Alexis Smith it was altogether different. Alexis dressed with elegant flair – several changes a day - smoked her cigarettes from a slender silver cigarette holder, looked sharp and carried herself like a star every minute.  She was in fact still going strong in a top television series and to some extent in the movies.  Her last one was, in fact, Scorcese’s "Age of Innocence” released in 1993, the year she passed away. In Manila 1983 there was not another woman around who radiated the star aura she did.  Yet she was not at all unapproachable chatting affably with whomever might come along, but the names that came up in her conversation, Flynn, Bogart, Cary Grant, Zachary Scott, Joan Crawford, Eleanor Parker, Michael Curtiz – sounded like a Who’s Who of the golden age of Hollywood.  Not that she was into "dropping names”, she was just talking about the people she worked with and hung out with in her everyday life.  

One day just sitting around the hotel lobby having a cup of coffee in the morning with Alexis and some other people waiting for a shuttle to the festival grounds, I was still intrigued by the fact that she had worked in a number of pictures with one of my favorite directors, the Hungarian Michael Curtiz, so I asked her what it had been like to work with this fabulous legendary director -- „Oh –Mike Cur-teeez – she said with a broad smile, a deep chuckle and a flamboyant wave of her cigarette holder –  Then, leaning forward as if to confide a big secret she says, „Mr. Curtiz had such a thick Hungarian accent that most of us on the set didn’t even know what the hell he was talking about most of the time!  -- He would yell out these instructions and we would look at each other and say  "What did he say? – Did you understand him?” ... She then went on to regale us with a couple of choice Michael Cutiz anecdotes which had us all in stitches to start the festival day. Quite a lady, Alexis Smith – up in the clouds and down to earth all at the same time – so classy and very good-looking for a „woman of a certain age”.

The final gala in the big festival hall arrives. Prizes are awarded and President Marcos appears to makes a long dull dictator type speech. Sir Richard Attenborough, distinguished director of Gandhi, makes a short moving humanitarian type speech. When they play The Star Spangled Banner, tears come to my eyes –- Don’t ask me why, but I suddenly feel patriotic out here in this country of countless Islands, where a stone’s throw away from the very hall where all this is taking place, the Bataan Death March took place in 1942, wherein many young American soldiers died, and from where General MacArthur escaped in a PT boat saying „I shall return”  -- and did return two years later to liberate the islands from the Japs.  And now it’s all being run by this piggish dictator with a Spanish name and his megalo-maniacal First Lady as the spirit of the great Indian humanitarian, Mohandis Mahatma Gandhi, hovers over the hall.

The lights go down and "Gandhi" is shown. Ben Kingsley is uncanny in the title role but I can’t get over the fact that Candice Bergen looks so out of place in the picture.  Then comes the big closing party. At the sumptuous sit-down dinner I find myself sitting at a table next to the famous Russian director Grigori Chukrai of „Ballad of a Soldier” and chat with him in my rusty Russian.  The Serbian guys in baggy suits from the Pula festival turn out to be the best dancers in the room. At one of the drink tables I meet this blustering bulky old Englishman in a white dinner jacket who tells me his name is Lew Grade –Sir Lew Grade.  I say, "Nice to meet you, Sir -- What do you do for a living?” – to which he says, with a huge sniff, "If you don’t know who Lew Grade is, young man, you have no right being at this festival!” – To which I reply affably, downing my martini at a gulp, „No shit? – Well I’m the American journalist Herman Pevner, and if you don’t know who Herman Pevner is YOU have no right being here”.  Sir Lew sees nothing funny in this and stomps off in a huff reciting the alphabet. Somebody who has overheard our little exchange at the cocktail table pulls me aside and tells me, "Guess what -- you just insulted the biggest film producer in England and one of the biggest big-shots in the whole film business in the whole world. "Well, he insulted me first” -- is all I can think of saying in reply, as I start on my second martini and head for the dance floor. Out on the dance floor all-American playboy George Hamilton and Philippine First Lady Imelda Marcos in a blood red traditional Philippine gown with high shoulder fins, and some kind of extravagant Spanish headdress, are the center of attention.  The First Lady is no slouch as a dancer and she and Hamilton are still at it as the crowd starts to thin out around three in the morning ... But there are still crowds out on the festival grounds milling about by a theater showing an all night marathon of bold films.

All in all Manila ’83 was just about the most spectacular and luxurious film festival I have ever attended, but that year was also the Swan Song for this particular tropical extravaganza because the next year there was a bloodless revolution in the Philippines, the Marcos’ were deposed and had to flee for their lives to Hawaii (with half of the national treasury) and Cori Aquino became the new president, with more important matters on her hands than self-aggrandizing film festivals. 

When I got back to Tokyo in February I wrote up my Manila article focusing on the high points of the festival without making any snide remarks about the vanity of the First Lady and refraining from any discussion on the politics of the Philippines (if one wants to get invited back one doesn’t bite the hand that feeds) and submitted it to Tokyo journal, a weekly mostly read by the expatriate community.  I was surprised when a letter from a reader sharply criticized my article for ”praising a dictatorship”  and even implied that I was a Fascist for writing such nice things about this Imelda Marcos sponsored event. I made a brief reply to the effect that it was not the duty of film critics to write about politics and I still hold to that.  What was I supposed to say? – that Robert Duvall, Richard Attenborough, Ben Kingsley et al, were all a bunch of dirty Fascists for accepting the lavish hospitality of Madame Marcos?

CANNES, ’83

In any case, the big news in the Japanese film world in early 1983 was the new Nagisa Oshima film, "Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence”, --