A scene from a Ronald Gan Ledesma movie (whose title now escapes me): he is driving home from work, arrives, gets down, opens the gate himself, goes back into the car to drive it in, and gets down again to close the gate himself— all this in one long uninterrupted shot that ate up at least a good ten minutes of precious 35 mm film stock, like it was edited by a certified moron. Up to now, I am still trying to figure out what the hell the point of that entire scene was, except perhaps to emphasize the fact that his character was driving a BMW (if I remember correctly—or some other fancy European car). Then it dawned on me that I had not understood the true essence of “B-movie-hood” until that very moment.

The name “Ronald Gan Ledesma” may not exactly be popular among the art house crowd. So, to the unenlightened, Ronald Gan Ledesma is an actor-director-producer with ten movies in his filmography, with heartbreakingly poetic titles like Basagan ng Mukha (co-starring Manny Pacquiao), Bro… Kahit Saang Engkwentro, Hanggang Kailan Ako Papatay Para Mabuhay, Ipinanganak Na Ang Taong Papatay sa Yo, Hindi Sisiw ang Kalaban Mo, and Terrorist Hunter (a recent MMFF entry, believe it or not) among others. What explains this surprisingly prolific output is something I can’t put into words. It is believed that his family acquired significant wealth through some multi-level (a.k.a pyramid scheme) thing. (His sister, Yam Ledesma, produced and hosted a noontime variety show called Lunch Break, an exemplification of a B-noontime show if there was one. Nobody seems to remember it—or her, for that matter.)

Why his name came up is something I’m not so clear about, except that this auteur seems to be the major representative of the recent Pinoy B-movie. But he remains a subatomic entity when set against the looming shadow of the granddaddy of the genre, Carlo J. Caparas (more on that later). Which brings us to our next point: What exactly makes a movie “B”? Do the standard descriptions still apply? Cheap production values? Bad acting? Deplorable script? Abysmally trite storyline? Second-to-third-rate actors? If so, then I can give examples of so-called “serious” arthouse Filipino films that also possess these characteristics in unbelievably huge volumes. Think of certain Lamangan and Portes oeuvres that sparkle with grand ambitions but with B-movie results.

B-movies now occupy a significant space in the post-Tarantino universe—one that blurs the boundaries between “highbrow” and “lowbrow,” between serious and trash, all viewed through a pair of 3-D eyeglasses of irony. The cult of Tarantino—schooled in the university of voracious video-store clerkhood viewing with equal parts Bergman, Corman, Antonioni, and Bruce Lee— have recently erased the general stigma of embracing what is often looked down upon as “trash,” the logic being, it seems, that it’s okay to appreciate crap because you know what makes it crap. The virtues to be found in these films are born out of accident, not of intent. It is appreciation with a sneer, a smirk.

The B-movie does not make any attempts to provide profound insights into the human condition. Often, the goal is mere entertainment, which is to say, engaging the basest of human impulses— sex, violence, and shallow humor. They may range from anything from a sci-fi horror flick with obviously fake giant octopuses to gangster dramas overpopulated by buxom blondes. They are possessed with the spirit of the word “bad”—bad acting, bad lighting, bad props, bad editing, bad sound, bad photography, etc. Which is to say, again, movies that have transcended the sound barriers of awfulness that they eventually boom with the frequency of genius. In short, movies so bad they’re good.

Based on this premise, it may be argued that 90 percent of the output of Philippine cinema may fall under this category—regardless of budget. Of course, by this, we mean commercial cinema, whose so-called “death” is blamed on the proliferation of said movies. Carlo J. Caparas, feeling alluded to during the finger-pointing, reacted rather violently and demanded satisfaction from his accusers by saying, “Kung gusto nila, suntukan na lang…. Sa totoo lang, sila ang pumapatay sa industriya dahil hindi kumikita sa takilya yung mga pelikula nila!” He was, of course, referring to those directors who put four-lettered initials after their names, letters that lend an air of “importance” and “seriousness.”

But what of the recent Pinoy B-movies, those usually screened in, uh, esteemed theaters in Recto and Aurora Boulevard in Cubao? The ‘90s saw an unbelievable profusion—those that starred the likes of Sonny Parsons, Ronnie Ricketts, Monsour del Rosario, Dan Fernando, Jeric Raval, Ian Veneracion, Gary Estrada, the pre-Erap-as-president Jinggoy Estrada et al? And the tragic one-shot deals of Jeffrey Santos and Reb “Dranreb” Belleza? Even the ‘80s bold actor Gino Antonio had one starring role in an obscurity called Batang Matador (info courtesy of Palanca-winning novelist Iwa Wilwayco; why Gino Antonio could not be erased from his memory is something you should simply ask him in person).

And what about our beloved B-movie kontrabida, George Estregan Jr., formerly known as “ER Ejercito” and now mayor of Pagsanjan, Laguna. We love him because he takes his roles over the top, always injecting them with a hyperbolic degree of gleeful psychosis (it’s always delightful to watch him play the drug-addled punk and the praning gangster among others, with that neurotic sneer, the perpetually malicious Estreganesque eyes, and little touches of quirky mannerisms here and there). Estregan Jr.’s virtues should be emulated by B-movie actors everywhere: If you’re in a cheapo gig, the least you can do is avoid being boring.

Not boring audiences is important for any B movie, because the plots and storylines are essentially the same—it’s always the good guy (usually garbed in a denim jacket, regardless of temperature) who resorts to bloodbath because his family is massacred by some mustachioed asshole in a white coat (who always seems to discuss his shenanigans on a balcony, surrounded by goons in blazers two sizes bigger, sipping brandy). And the bida’s romantic interest should have D-cup boobs and an inherent inability to act, usually playing the all-too convenient role of the prostitute who wants to change. And speaking of the babes, I have spent a significant amount of time doing, uh, research on this department. The turnover of names, faces, and mammary glands are quite fast, with expiration periods of maybe about three to four movies. My favorites include Allona Amor, Sabrina M., Piel Morena, and Alma Soriano. I was also able to watch the pre-Booba Rufa Mae Quinto in her debut film, Gloria, Gloria Labandera, which is quite funny because its generally crappy cinematography suddenly turns beautiful and dramatic when she takes off her clothes and engages in badly acted sex.

But back to the subject of boring—say what you want about Carlo J. Caparas, but he is anything but. The elements: bad acting, poor production values, deplorable writing, and direction—this man has the seemingly superhuman ability to combine it all in one grand package. Consider the delightful The Cory Quirino Kidnap Story, a dramatization of the TV host’s ordeal, done with the trademark Caparasian crappiness that it easily transgresses the boundaries of genius. Portraying Cory is Ara Mina, whose recent Best Actress win in some festival may or may not validate her claim to A-list stardom. Ara manages to cop a convincingly sosyal diction by pronouncing the word “kidnap” as “keed-nap,” the way Triumph the Insult Comic Dog would say “I kid, I kid.” Sample dialogue: “Deed you know… I was keed-napped!” “Oh reee-leee? You wer keed-napped?” retort her amigas, who, in the movie, looked about as Forbes Park-upper crust as Roxlee.

There will not be enough space to properly discuss all the virtues of The Cory Quirino Keednap Story, but allow me to point out its brilliant climax: Cory (Ara) was in the backseat of the keednappers’ car, praying, when all of a sudden, the heavens open, with thunder and lightning (using super-cheap special effects, something like crayola-on-celluloid), all made more memorable and dramatic with the sudden torrents of “hallelujahs” from Handel’s Messiah.

The sad fact is that Carlo J. Caparas has not made a film in years. What’s even sadder is that the Philippine industry is now experiencing a massive dearth in B-movies. Instead, thanks to the so-called digital revolution, we are facing a plague of “serious” and “artistic” films in Biblically pestilential proportions, each one ambitioning to be Brocka and Bernal. Where are the Val Iglesiases? The Ron-Ricks? The Jose “Kaka” Balagtases? The Ben “M-7” Yalungs? The Bhen Cervanteses? (I kid, I kid). The Jose Carreons? The Rico Mambos? Now what happens to those poor stuntment and kontrabidas on perennial standby at Magnatech, waiting for work? I want my B-movie back, goddamit, and while forever waiting, I end this article with five words that will suffice for now: APOY SA DIBDIB NG SAMAR.