In the interview with Screen Anarchy, Khavn de la Cruz—a boundary-pushing Filipino filmmaker known for his avant-garde approach—opens up about his latest cinematic venture, Makamisa: Phantasm of Revenge.
Screened at the Lausanne Underground Film Festival, whre the film won the prize for the Best Feature Film (read the news), the film offers a unique, surrealist interpretation of Makamisa, an unfinished novel by the Filipino national hero José Rizal. Melding surrealist cinema with historical roots, Khavn describes the film as a provocative blend of early 20th-century cinematic techniques and experimental storytelling that challenges conventional genre boundaries.
Throughout the conversation, Khavn reveals his creative journey from the film’s inception in the '90s to its rebirth decades later, inspired by both historical events and his own artistic evolution. Drawing on influences like French avant-garde, Filipino folklore, and forgotten celluloid methods, he crafted a film that defies categorization.
From shooting on expired 35mm film stock to incorporating live theater elements, Makamisa is more than just a film; it's a multimedia experiment that embodies what Khavn calls "total cinema". In our interview, he discusses the layered influences behind Makamisa, the challenges of shooting on expired stock, and his commitment to an unfiltered, punk-style cinema that is as raw as it is inventive.
Screen Anarchy: Let’s talk about your latest work, MAKAMISA: PHANTASM OF REVENGE. How did this project evolve?
Khavn de la Cruz: Ah, Makamisa… yeah, that’s been quite a journey. It started way back, like in the '90s. There was this book that came out about José Rizal's third, unfinished novel, and I was intrigued. Rizal started writing it in Tagalog, wanting to reconnect with his roots, but halfway through, he wasn’t satisfied with how it was coming out, so he switched back to Spanish. But then he was executed in 1896, and the manuscript was never completed.
Back in the '90s, I had this idea of turning it into a metal rock opera—a surrealist take on Rizal’s work. Think of something in the vein of Luigi Pirandello's Six Characters in Search of an Author, but that project never fully materialized at the time. I got sidetracked with other films. I did have sketches, some early plans, but it never took off until much later.
So when did it pick up again?
Fast forward to the mid-2000s. I was fascinated with the idea of making a lost, surrealist film, imagining this Filipino proto-surrealist who somehow existed before or during the surrealist movement in Europe. I was also struck by the coincidence that 1896—the year Rizal was executed—was also the year Alfred Jarry's play, Ubu Roi, premiered in France. This connection sparked something in me, and I began to think of ways to merge Rizal and Jarry's worlds.
There were other influences too, like Guy Maddin’s The Heart of the World and the idea of creating a film that feels like it was made in the early 20th century, despite being contemporary. I became obsessed with the idea of making a hand-colored, hand-processed 35mm film, just like how they used to do in the early days of cinema. I was inspired by a book called Fantasia of Color in Early Cinema that focused on the hand-coloring techniques used in those old films. I wanted to recreate that—something that felt tactile, like an old Méliès film, where color is so vivid and alive.
How did you shoot it?
We shot it on expired Fuji 35mm film stock. In Manila, nobody shoots on 35mm anymore, but the Fuji distributor still had some leftover stock. It was super cheap because he hadn’t been able to sell it for years. We also managed to rent an ARRI 35mm camera from this rental house, where the owner was just as obsessed with celluloid as I am. He had kept these cameras in pristine condition for years, hoping someone would want to use them. When we approached him, he was just thrilled that someone wanted to shoot on film.
So, you shot on expired film, hand-colored it—how did you bring it all together?
It was a process. We shot a lot of footage in a desert-like area outside Manila, which had formed after a volcanic eruption. There’s also this incredible location where a whole town was submerged by water, and now all that’s left is this giant crucifix rising out of the lake—it’s quite a haunting image, and it features in the film.
We combined all of this with a live theater performance we did in Berlin in 2022, where we fused Rizal and Jarry into a play called SuperMacho AntiKristo, or SMAK for short. The play used footage from Makamisa, projected on a translucent screen, so sometimes the actors were performing in front of the screen, sometimes behind it. It was this blend of theater and cinema—what I like to call a "total cinema" or "total theater" project.
MAKAMISA: PHANTASM OF REVENGE was part of the theater piece, but it also stands alone as a film?
Yeah, that’s right. It premiered as part of the play, but the film has its own life too. It’s a silent film, hand-processed, hand-colored… well, not fully hand-colored yet when we showed it, but you could already feel the vibe of early cinema. We used a lot of expired stock, so the look is quite unique.
What about the music?
The music came first, actually. Back in 2015, I worked with my band, The Contraquino Orchestra, and recorded about 100 tracks in just four days. We had musicians from all over, and some of those tracks ended up in the film. Plus, we had contributions from David Toop, whose ambient music helped shape the soundscape.
MAKAMISA was invited to FidMarseille, a documentary film festival. How does that fit in?
These days, documentary festivals are all about hybrids. The lines between fiction and documentary have blurred. When FidMarseille invited Makamisa, it didn’t surprise me because I’ve been in a similar situation before.
Danish CPH:DOX gave me a retrospective years ago, and I thought, "But I’m not a documentary filmmaker!" But I realized it’s not about rigid definitions anymore. It’s about creative freedom, and Makamisa fits into that—it’s not strictly fiction or documentary. It’s a hybrid of everything.
Speaking of blending genres, there’s a lot of Christian and pagan iconography in the film?
José Rizal’s original intent with Makamisa was to critique the Catholic Church. Even though his first two novels were already anti-clerical, Makamisa was going to take that even further. He wanted to show that there was a rich pre-Hispanic culture in the Philippines, long before colonization. So, the Christian symbols in the film—like the giant crucifix—are part of that critique. It’s this mix of the sacred and the profane, which is something I’ve always been drawn to.
You’ve collaborated with many artists in your films. How do you approach that creative process, and does it draw from other forms like poetry or jazz?
Yeah, definitely. Beat poetry, free jazz, even surrealist automatic writing—all of that comes into play. I used to have a small press called Instamatic Writings, which was inspired by that instant, first-thought-best-thought kind of energy. I love the freedom and improvisation of jazz, but with cinema, we still need some structure.
There’s always a map, even if it’s just a rough one. Sometimes it’s a very loose screenplay—more like notes—but it’s there. Of course, there are also times when I go without a script, and we just see what happens on set. Other times, it’s a screenplay that’s a single sentence or one page. It all depends on the project.
You’ve worked with Lilith Stangenberg, who stars in the film, several times now. What’s that creative relationship like?
Oh, we’ve definitely developed a great creative chemistry. We first worked together on Orphea, which has a twin sister film called Love is a Dog from Hell. Half of Orphea is mine, the other half is Alexander Kluge’s. Then we did a short film called Harakiri & Wasabi: Escape from Sodom. There was also a theater play, and maybe another short film—I lose track—but most recently, we shot a film in Berlin, and before that, we worked on something in Paris.
She’s always fully committed to the work. I mean, I remember this scene we were shooting by the river, and out of nowhere, she said, "I could jump," and she just jumped into this river with a strong current! Luckily, there were fishermen nearby who rescued her, but that level of commitment is something I’ve never seen in any Filipino actor.
Does her commitment influence your vision?
Not so much change it, but definitely elevate it. When you’re a director or screenwriter, what you put on the page is just a set of instructions. The actor breathes life into the character. With Lilith, she brings this extra dimension to everything, turning a flat idea into something multi-layered.
It’s not about altering the vision; it’s about giving it life and depth. She’s from a theater background, so she’s heavy on preparation and rehearsals, which isn’t always the case in my films. We only rehearse if it’s a musical, or if there’s choreography involved.
You mentioned earlier there could be more films related to MAKAMISA. Can you talk about that?
Yeah, there’s actually a lot more to come. First, there’s this 10-hour cut I’ve been calling El Diablo in Filipinas, which is basically all the rushes from Makamisa, in black and white and shot in slow motion. Then there’s going to be a behind-the-scenes documentary. I’m excited about one scene in particular, where I was directing Lav Diaz, who played Cristo Castrado—the Castrated Christ.
We were having this hilarious back-and-forth, cursing each other out in character, and it was so intense and funny. You’ll see Lav looking like Jesus with chaos in the background while we were yelling the worst insults at each other. It’s going to be a great moment in the documentary.
And then there’s a third idea I’ve been toying with, which is a shot-for-shot remake of Makamisa—but a super clean, high-definition version. Kind of like what Gus van Sant did with Psycho. The version we have now is very dirty and abstract, which was intentional, but it would be interesting to do a restored version where everything is sharp and clean.
Speaking of dirty film, you mentioned the challenges of processing it. How did you manage that during the pandemic?
That was tricky. We had to transfer the film digitally, but it was so dirty and fragile that most scanners couldn’t handle it. Fortunately, we found this guy who had a special scanner that could deal with damaged celluloid. His machine saved the project. It’s not the standard ARRI scanner—it’s something more specialized for fragile film, and that’s how we got it done.
You’ve been known for your punk-style productions. Has your approach to filmmaking changed over time?
Not really. I mean, we still work with tiny budgets, sometimes just out of our own pockets. It’s more about the desire to create than anything else. Cinema is weird because it has this whole process of finding funding, but the creative spirit doesn’t wait for that. It’s like writing a poem or a song—you don’t wait for someone to give you permission. You just do it. So we shoot fast, we minimize locations, and we work with what we have. If you don’t have money, you just have to be more creative. That’s the essence of it.
MAKAMISA and your other films have imagery that remind me of Alejandro Jodorowsky. Is he an influence?
I discovered Jodorowsky’s films maybe 10 or 15 years ago, after people started comparing Mondomanila to his work. I checked him out, and I’m a huge fan of El Topo, The Holy Mountain, and even Santa Sangre. There’s definitely a connection with his surrealist universe. It’s like discovering a kindred spirit from another planet. You realize you’re not alone in this strange, absurd cinematic world.