Critic After Dark

Lord of the Flies (1954) v Lord of the Flies (1963) v Alkitrang Dugo (Clotted Blood, 1975) v Lord of the Flies (1990) v Lord of the Flies (Netflix, 2026)

2026-05-18T06:10:30.993-04:00

Pig hunt

(Warning: plot and surprise twists in book and TV series discussed in explicit detail)

I remember reading William Golding's 1954 debut novel as a teen and having nightmares about running through the jungle with other boys in pursuit, waving sticks sharpened at both ends-- did not help the development of my socialization skills, lemme tell you.

The book comes off as a fable, the characters barely sketched-in symbols, the theme clear enough and neat enough for literature majors to milk for their theses: humans have this ingrown tendency to violence, and we flirt with or ignore it at our peril. Really that simple, the novel's chief virtue and key weakness, and folks who seek to adapt it flirt with this fact or ignore it at their peril.

Take Netflix's 2026 miniseries, where writer Jack Thorne (Adolescence) reconceived the book as four chapters devoted to the points of view of the four main characters: Piggy (David McKenna), Jack (Lox Pratt), Simon (Ike Talbut), Ralph (Winston Sawyers). Thorne gives each a backstory: Jack is ignored by his parents and fears being seen as weak; Simon shares a bond of loneliness with Jack during vacation time, is ignored by Jack the rest of the school year, in which case the former spends the rest of his time alone hearing voices; Ralph's mother was sickly and died not long ago.

Right off Jack is a problem. That innate savagery hiding in all of us is actually-- fear of abandonment? Simon, the mystic who hears otherworldly voices is really-- schizophrenic? Everything that happened might have been prevented by therapy, maybe a regimen of Thorazine? Odd that Piggy has no backstory, save for the constant tales of his aunt-- if you can believe he has one, if his stories aren't made up on the fly (possibly Thorne felt Piggy was too valuable a plot function to fiddle with).

Understand the desire to cast Ralph as mixed-race and Sawyers is a charismatic talent no doubt... but I've always thought of Golding's fable as a warning directed at white Europeans (and their wealthier more powerful cousin white Americans); warning people who are already aware of said Europeans' barbarism (having often been at receiving end) feels redundant.

But my biggest problem with the film is Marc Munden's direction. I understand the temptation to digitally turn the island into a rainbow of colors, from brilliant lemon green to deep fireblood red to bleak ashy grey... but Golding's novel is already an abstracted story with huge improbabilities (Pigs on an uninhabited island? Boys who learn to build a fire and kill large mammals in so many days? In 1965 six Tongan boys from 13 to 19 years old organized and cooperated and survived for over a year on an island (they ate wild chicken and, when desperate, bird's blood)-- can't thirty British boarding school students? ('Well,' sly voice whispers in my ear as I write this 'that's because they're white and British...')). Trying to sell the book's contrived premise is already an uphill task, do we need the bells and whistles of a digital paint job to make matters harder?

Throw in a few other minor details that irked: learning to shape flint spearheads and mounting them on wooden shafts isn't an easy skill to master (in the novel they used sharpened sticks)-- and after all that trouble they swing the spears instead of stabbing? And succeed at killing their prey anyway? Wild boars incidentally don't give up easy; they can outrun any human, no matter how young or healthy, and they will kill anyone who comes between them and their babies. But okay okay, a fable.

To be fair Munden does offer effective moments-- the tenderness between Jack and Simon is moving (even if I feel the idea of their having this hidden friendship feels wrong-- Simon the mystic needs to be isolated to seem mysterious); of the cast I'd cite not just Sawyers and McKenna (the latter nominated for a Gotham Award) but Pratt as the volatile self-doubting faintly androgynous Jack-- though again while you're moved by his predicament, the fact that he harbors doubts tends to flatten the threat of his presence.

Piggy's lingering end as opposed to the sudden one in Golding's novel does result in more quality time between him and Ralph, and I appreciate all the Groucho Marx quotes, but watching Ralph drag a barely conscious Piggy past Jack's spearwaving boys, to successfully escape and hide-- at some point your willingness to believe seizes up and you've got to laugh at the visual idiocy. Couldn't Jack order his boys to stand back and let the two leave? Couldn't Thorne and Munden just stick to the book?

For all the flaws I prefer this to the 1990 version which couldn't overcome the gimmick of turning the kids American (with British boarding schools you appreciate the shock value of watching kids with posh accents grow corrupt; with American schools... well let's just say I've seen things that make William Golding's castaways seem as savage and chaotic as an online book club meeting).

Even more bizarre is Lupita Aquino-Kashiwahara's 1975 Alkitrang Dugo (Clotted Blood, 1975) which transposes the story to a Filipino island. Again my thesis: didn't Golding direct this fable towards white folks (And again, that sly voice: 'But upperclass Filipinos think they're honorary white folk--')? Aquino-Kashiwahara does well enough with a tiny budget and her jungle (basically the rain forests of Quezon Province) is more lush and claustrophobic than anything onscreen so far; in the film's final moments she pivots and turns the tale into an allegory about strongman rule, and I can actually buy her variation of Golding's basic message: hidden inside all of us is an embryonic fascist, ready to emerge.

Finally there's Peter Brook's 1963 black-and-white version, where the director takes on the problem of thirty inexperienced kids and how to make a screen adaptation from their collective performances: he simply shoots them over and over again, sixty hours' worth of footage, then trims that enormous pile of improvised material down to a viewable ninety-minute feature.

I think Brook's version works: the stark black-and-white, the unaffected performances, the young voices that shout and shriek the way real boys do, in a weekend adventure gone horribly wrong, on an island blessedly free of digital manipulation. Yes Golding has done better (he's said his favorite among his books is The Inheritors, I say it's the surreally perverse Darkness Visible); arguably this was the perfect choice to adapt to the big screen, its crude schema lending to easy translation, Brook's severe approach in turn pruning the book's more self-absorbed self-indulgent passages.

Is it possible to adapt Golding's most famous novel to the big screen? I think so: a simplistic message but one too important not to deliver at least once, loud and clear, and Brook pulled it off a mere nine years after the book's publication. I submit we didn't need any other.

First published in Businessworld 5.15.26

Re-Wind (Hisayasu Sato, 1988)

2026-05-14T14:31:43.453-04:00

For Adults Only

If Peeping Tom and Videodrome and Don't Torture a Duckling had a bastard child this might be the sleazy result.

The plot hinges around a series of snuff videotapes circulating Tokyo's underworld, and both a private investigator and the janitor in a porn video arcade are obsessed with discovering the source. But that's not the film's priority, which seems twofold, pretentious and prehensile both: to indulge the filmmaker's obsessions, which include celebrating his influences (Powell's vivd color palette, Cronenberg's body horror) and attempting to transcend them without a comparable budget; and adhering to the strict conditions of the genre's format-- a sexual encounter every ten minutes, a precisely titrated amount of gore, and (above all) no genital exposure.

That lack of a real budget is frustrating. The videos themselves when viewed aren't all that transgressive with POV footage recording fuzzy imagery and some clumsily executed onscreen mutilation (there's a bowl of spaghetti however that's bluntly effective, easily the most horrifying shock cut in the picture). The sex is more entertaining, and the fact that Sato has to come up with something kinky with the actors not exposing their crotch or even shedding their underwear becomes a real challenge-- just how much pleasure can you get out of sucking at an erection through cottonwear?

The cumulative blueball feel does get to you-- at a certain point you find yourself fastforwarding to the more interesting-looking stuff and rewinding to make sure you've squeezed out all the juices; you also, I suspect, find yourself more susceptible to Sato's more incidental effects. Perhaps his most satisfying moments aren't the scenes of extensive skin contact (or rather skin-through-silk contact), or the faintly risible sight of the killer swinging a spring-loaded knife mounted on a video camera mounted on a tripod like an ax (the weapon seems more threatening when the metal-tipped tripod legs are used as a spear) but the transitional images, the gliding shots through ultramodern cityscapes to end at a chainlink fence, behind which we see an abandoned fridge door gaping wide, inside of which lies a severed hand clutching a videotape (might as well throw in Bunuel as one of the director's sublimated heroes). Perhaps my favorite is a nothing image, a throwaway shot of buildings standing against brilliant sky, the harsh sunlight flagellated by tree branches in a stiff wind. Light me a cigarette, honey, I could use the postcoital smoke.

(Postscript: pause before the rabbit hole and enter at your own risk. Turns out Criterion Channel only showed one of Sato's more palatable films, and if you do a little googling to specific websites you can see his darker (if still genre-constricted-- no genitals!) work, some of them unabashedly queer. Secret Garden (1987) is a neat reworking of The Story of O with payback ending ingeniously appended, and Silencer Made of Glass is a lurid bit of sadomasochism with flash suppressor attached. Nothing wishy-washy here, only fetishes and fixations being thoroughly indulged)

The Quiet Man: The Films of Mario O'Hara

2026-03-31T10:43:00.003-04:00

In 2005 we put out a book: Critic After Dark: A Review of Philippine Cinema

In 2026 we're doing it again.

The Quiet Man: The Films of Mario O'Hara was twenty-one years in the making, a collection of pieces new and old on the filmmaker plus a fistful of photographs, some of them never seen before, with a focus on arguably his greatest muse Nora Aunor, and we're launching the book on Sat April 25 (five days after O'Hara's 80th birthday) at 3 PM in Archivo 1984, 5F Building A, Karrivin Plaza, 2316 Chino Roces Avenue, Makati City, Philippines.

Be there if you dare.