HEADLESS (PUGOT) (PHILIPPINES/2004/KHAVN)

A long-haired man, topless and bleeding, looks in agony towards a light as the credits roll in for Khavn’s Headless (Pugot). The man is seen intermittently throughout the film as he wanders through the streets of a Filipino town in the early hours, blood streaming from his crotch as if he had been castrated. Most of the screentime however is dedicated to the squabbles of a married couple, the wife on display as her artist husband hides behind the camera interrogating her. They discuss the ethical issues behind eating pork, the fine lines between pornography and art, and the science of nightmares. As both stories gradually deteriorate, the viewer is left to question how closely connected they are.

There is an unusual feeling of the underground with Headless. Both ‘stories’ show the viewer private aspects of the characters’ lives, and the film’s home movie shooting style, combined with the almost imperceptible narrative structure, lend it an uncomfortable realism. Though it may be an obtuse comparison to make, the film occasionally outdoes the likes of Paranormal Activity and Cloverfield in generating intensity from the first-person perspective, and is far more believable than either of the two. One is also reminded of Michael Haneke’s oeuvre, the true drama taking place in the imagined spaces between scenes. This is not to give Headless too much credit as a lot more could have been said in its hour-long runtime, but anyone looking for a modern underground film would do well to seek it out.

ISKWATERPANGK (PHILIPPINES/2007/KHAVN)

Utilising a wistfully grungy soundtrack to suit a visual style straight from the Nirvana videography, Khavn paints an ambiguous portrait of a group of fun-loving pubescent scamps (‘Squatterpunks’) living in an impoverished slum. There is no chronology to speak of, more a series of giddy, licentious vignettes, presenting these kids’ lives as endless bouts of hedonism. Khavn wisely avoids imbuing the feature with guilt-tripping facts and figures, instead lionising his subjects as if they were MTV’s latest artists du jour. The only subtitles provide helpful translations for graffiti and T-shirt slogans which say more than perhaps personal accounts could. On the other hand, it does sometimes feel like Khavn is stifling these children, their voices only heard at moments when the music dies down. Sure, they might exemplify the more venerable facets of the punk movement, but it is a comparison that one should work out independently, rather than being spoon-fed it.

There is a disturbingly hypnotic sequence repeated through the film where three kids sat in discarded tyres sniff heavily from bags of glue, but it is hard to infer exactly what was meant to be communicated. For the most part, the camera frolics around as if part of the clique, neither judging nor advocating their behaviour, so when we take a step back to witness their drug abuse like shocked parents, its profundity is uprooted by the happy sequence following it. A fascinating entry to the documentary genre, but one whose message is obscured by the aesthetic it employs.