During a sit-down with Lav, he tossed out the Vice Ganda line almost casually, like a joke half-formed. But Lav doesn’t do jokes. His films teach you that the camera lingers until you squirm, the stories loop back until you recognize you’ve been here before. So when he said Vice on the ballot, I heard it as another long take, a provocation, not a punchline.
Because this isn’t really about Vice. It’s about the country’s obsession with spectacle, the way politics already runs like a theater. Lav has been circling this for decades. Norte, Hangganan ng Kasaysayan, his take on Dostoevsky, follows a brilliant law student who murders while an innocent man rots in prison, a brutal reminder of how justice bends toward power. Hele sa Hiwagang Hapis, his eight-hour meditation on the Revolution, stretched the march for independence into betrayal after betrayal, showing freedom as unfinished business. Batang West Side, set in New Jersey, tracked the Filipino diaspora through a young man’s death and the detective who unravels it, a story of exile and alienation. Different films, different frames, but the same diagnosis, cycles of suffering replayed, spectacle masking decay.
So yes, Vice Ganda, the most visible entertainer of the moment, makes perfect sense in his mouth. Not as a campaign slogan, but as proof. If politics has long been about charisma, image, and showmanship, then who better than the performer who already commands the crowd? The remark is less an endorsement than an X-ray; here is what politics has become.
Lav told me during dinner that trolls had started circling him online. He said it with a shrug, like he’s seen the script before. And he has. His films are full of that noise, gossip, rumor, and fear, turning into background music. From What Is Before, which won the Golden Leopard at Locarno, captured the creeping atmosphere before Martial Law, villagers sensing terror through whispers before it descended full force. Melancholia, his three-part study of grief, showed characters swapping roles, a nun, a prostitute, a pimp, yet never escaping their despair, a metaphor for a country trapped in cycles no matter the costume. Florentina Hubaldo, CTE, followed a woman suffering memory loss, her abuse and pain replayed endlessly, a portrait of a nation addicted to forgetting. Every one of these films tells you the same thing: rumor, repetition, amnesia, the mechanics of power.
So the chatter online about his Vice Ganda remark, some laughing, some thrilled, others unsettled, only proves the point. Lav has always staged dissonance. Season of the Devil, his sung-through anti-musical, gave us dictatorship through flat, tuneless chants, propaganda delivered without melody, a deliberate discomfort. His Vice Ganda provocation works in the same register, jagged, unmelodic, daring you to sit with the discord.
Three words still hang in my head: mapanlikha, mapangahas, mapanukso. Inventive, daring, provocative. They’re his signatures. He stretches time until it breaks. He stages history without compromise. He unsettles surfaces until deeper truths spill out.
So no, this isn’t prophecy. It’s a parable. Lav leaves the camera running, long after the line is spoken. He doesn’t cut. He never does. And the audience, the electorate, are left in the frame, forced to decide whether they’ll keep applauding the performance or finally demand something else, something real, something not yet rehearsed.