The release of Trese’s Netflix adaptation in June 2021 felt like a dream come true. For those unfamiliar, Trese takes place in a genre that can only be described as Manila noir, following the exploits of young detective Alexandra Trese as she investigates crimes involving the supernatural. Notable is its featuring of creatures from Philippine folklore, such as the horse-headed tikbalang, the mound-dwelling nuno sa punso, and the flesh-eating aswang. However, Trese’s quickly-gained popularity did not come without criticism; this article in particular points out the misrepresentation of “busaw” in the form of Trese’s main antagonist, the war god Talagbusao. I’m also reminded of the controversy that erupted shortly after the release of Hayop Ka!, which was touted as the first Filipino animated film (not technically true, given the existence of RPG Metanoia (2010) and Saving Sally (2016)). Netizens were quick to take issue with Hayop Ka!’s infidelity/”third party” storyline, but beyond that, a question struck me: “Why put so much pressure on these series in the first place?”
Even after all this time, Filipinos are hungry for representation. We jump for joy every time a Filipino is recognized internationally; someone even 1/16th Filipino winning a sports award is a momentous occasion for us. Why? Back when the only Filipino icon we had was Manny Pacquiao, that was understandable, but now we have Jollibee, Pia Wurtzbach, Ned Leeds from the Marvel Spider-Man movies, and even cartoon characters representing us, such as Lars Barriga from Steven Universe, Janna Ordonia from Star vs. the Forces of Evil, and Eileen the “Sewer Queen” from Craig of the Creek. We’re getting representation now more than ever - people’s perception of us doesn’t hinge on one show or movie or icon anymore, so why are we so quick to tear down works like Trese and Hayop Ka!? Why all the pressure?
I’m starting to think this pressure is a result of a deeper self-esteem problem. When a person is insecure, they rely on other people’s validation to feel better about themselves. The key thing here is that the validation is external - and so, just as an insecure person seeks praise from people outside themselves, so does an insecure nation.
The hard truth we have to confront is this: representation in itself is hard to do well. Our country’s rich, diverse culture makes that tall order even taller - and that’s not a bad thing! The Philippines has varied landscapes - just looking at Luzon, you already have a desert (the La Paz Sand Dunes in Laoag), a mountain range (Cordilleras), a set of scattered islands (Batanes), flood-prone plains (Central Luzon), and a volcanic region (Bicol). Then there’s the people - although provincial stereotypes are outdated, their mere existence is proof of our diversity, from the romantic Tagalog and the hot-blooded Waray to the stingy Ilocano and the flamboyant Negrense. No matter what way you look at things - fashion, cuisine, architecture, language - the Philippines is diverse, and how do you present that breadth of culture in a Netflix series composed of six half-hour episodes?
If I could hazard some cautious optimism, I’d say that our numerous narratives are a great opportunity for exploration, rather than an obligation we must impose on a singular work. No movie or show can ever encompass how rich our culture is, and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s time we stop forcing the ocean into a cup, and admire the amount of water we have to begin with.
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