Cutting the Line: A Must-Read Movie Review on Quezon (2025)

  *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

"History is never just about what happened — it is about how we choose to remember.” #DJOT

 

Prologue: A Lesson Outside the Cinema

 

The story I am about to tell did not begin when the lights dimmed and the film flickered on the screen.

It began outside — in a line at Gateway Mall.

 

Juliana, my daughter, held my arm with the kind of excitement only children possess when they sense a story is about to unfold.

“Papa… matagal ko nang gustong mapanood ’to.”

 

I smiled.

But the universe had other plans.

 

While standing patiently at the generic lane, a group of grown women eased forward and cut in front of my daughter. Walang pasintabi, walang respeto, walang pagtanaw man lang ng kahihiyan.

 

When I calmly addressed it, sila pa ang nagalit.

 

I saw Juliana’s expression fall — that delicate collapse of innocence when a child realizes adults do not always behave the way they should. As a father, it bruised me. As a Filipino, it awakened something deeper.

 

Because in that moment I thought:

 

Kung simpleng pila nga lang hindi masunod, paano pa natin pangangalagaan ang mas malaking bagay — tulad ng kasaysayan?

Kung batang kayang tiyakin, gaano kadali ring tapakan ang memorya ng ating bansa?

 

I held her hand tighter as we walked into the theater, unaware that the film we were about to watch would mirror the same injustice:

someone stepping ahead of others, rearranging truth, claiming a place in our collective memory that they did not earn.

 

Entering the Theater, Entering a Battlefield

 

When the screen lit up, I felt the heavy air of historical cinema — the promise of truth, the temptation of artistic license. Quezon (2025) is undeniably crafted with mastery:

beautiful lighting, immersive sound, meticulous production.

 

But under the elegance, something trembled.

 

A quiet distortion.

A selective framing.

A narrative tilt that leans away from Filipino dignity and toward a gentler portrait of our colonizers.

 

This is not accidental.

This is the film’s heartbeat.

 

And to understand why, we must begin with the man at its center.

 

**MANUEL L. QUEZON:

 

THE GENIUS THE FILM TRIED TO SHRINK**

 

Jericho Rosales emerges as Quezon, and instantly something feels off — the voice too nasal, the physicality mismatched, the emotional energy external rather than internal.

 

Because Quezon was not a man you could perform lightly.

Quezon was not a man you could imitate.

Quezon was not a man you could reduce.

 

He was intensity incarnate.

 

He was:

• lightning disguised as diplomacy,
• fire veiled under charm,
• cunning sharpened by necessity,
• arrogance forged by colonial humiliation,
• tenderness hidden beneath the armor of leadership,
• and a man racing against tuberculosis slowly suffocating him from inside.

 

He fought two enemies at the same time:

 

the empire outside

and the death within.

 

The film captures the thunder of his temper

but not the storm inside his heart.

 

It shows outbursts

but hides the urgency.

It shows flaws

but not the furnace that created them.

 

Worse, it tries to “define” Quezon rather than understand him.

 

But Quezon was not a definition.

He was a contradiction.

 

A man brilliant enough to maneuver Americans,

broken enough to wound those who loved him,

visionary enough to build the Commonwealth,

human enough to stumble along the way.

 

He demanded too much from himself,

and too much from others,

because he knew time was running out.

 

And the one who carried that weight with him — quietly, painfully — was Aurora.

 

**AURORA ARAGON QUEZON:

 

THE WOMAN WHO HELD THE STORM**

 

The film barely reveals Aurora,

but behind every great storm, there is someone who holds the ground still.

 

Aurora endured what history forgets:

• Quezon’s temper
• Quezon’s infidelity
• the shadow of his first marriage
• the loneliness of being a political wife
• the sight of the man she loved being eaten alive by tuberculosis

 

Yet she stayed.

 

Not because she was meek,

but because she was strong.

 

She steadied Quezon when his fire scorched him.

She softened him when his ego expanded.

She kept him human when power threatened to consume his soul.

 

To diminish Aurora is to diminish Quezon.

 

Because she was not the woman behind the President.

She was the woman beneath the foundation.

 

**EMILIO AGUINALDO —

 

The First President Flattened into a Convenient Villain**

 

Aguinaldo is complex:

brilliant, flawed, decisive, burdened by impossible choices.

 

But the film reduces him to a villain.

 

The mob scene — labeling him “butcher,” “traitor” — is staged as unquestionable fact, ignoring decades of debate.

His refusal to speak English — originally a symbol of resistance — is framed as incompetence.

His Commonwealth run — intended to uphold dignity — is stripped of context.

 

He becomes a caricature,

so someone else can shine.

 

And that someone is Leonard Wood.

 

**LEONARD WOOD —

 

THE COLONIAL ADMINISTRATOR TURNED CINEMATIC SAINT**

 

This is the film’s most dangerous lie.

 

Wood, an American who doubted Filipino competence and vetoed early independence, is portrayed as:

• calm
• wise
• fatherly
• rational
• morally centered

 

While Filipino leaders appear impulsive, chaotic, inferior.

 

The colonial administrator becomes the “adult in the room.”

 

The film gives Wood a halo

and Filipinos long shadows.

 

This is not artistic license.

This is historical inversion.

This is the cinematic equivalent of letting colonizers cut ahead in the narrative of our own nation.

 

And it mirrors exactly what happened to my daughter in that line.

 

**MANUEL ROXAS —

 

The Technocrat Reduced to a Background Decoration**

 

Roxas, one of the most brilliant Filipino minds of the era, is visually present but narratively irrelevant.

A silent “young star” without ideological depth.

 

His complex balancing act — between Filipino interests and American influence — is discarded.

 

Because to show Roxas fully would disrupt the film’s preferred framing:

Americans as the stabilizing force.

 

**GREGORIO AGLIPAY —

 

The Spiritual Rebel Silenced**

 

Aglipay founded the Philippine Independent Church — a monumental act of spiritual nationalism.

 

He was a revolutionary priest who refused to bow to colonial faith structures.

 

Yet in the film, he becomes a prop — a religious silhouette devoid of context.

 

The spiritual backbone of Filipino resistance is reduced to set dressing.

 

**SERGIO OSMEÑA —

 

THE QUIET THUNDER BESIDE QUEZON**

 

Of all the erasures in the film, the treatment of Sergio Osmeña may be the most subtle — but also the most tragic.

 

Osmeña was not Quezon’s sidekick.

He was not a wallflower.

He was not a polite shadow.

 

He was the counterbalance.

 

If Quezon was fire,

Osmeña was the calm water that kept the Commonwealth from boiling over.

 

If Quezon was charisma,

Osmeña was discipline.

 

If Quezon shouted storms,

Osmeña whispered stability.

 

He was:

• the master strategist
• the patient architect of party politics
• the stabilizing spine of the Nacionalista Party
• the quiet man who carried the government when Quezon’s illness worsened

 

But cinema does not know how to portray quiet greatness.

 

So Osmeña becomes a polite background figure —

a statesman reduced to silence

so American figures can dominate the frame.

 

It is a profound injustice.

 

Because Osmeña represents the Filipino who leads without theatrics,

who waits without resentment,

who carries the nation not with fire, but with dignity.

 

THE WITNESS THEY TRIED TO HIDE: JOVEN HERNANDO

 

In Heneral Luna and Goyo,

Joven Hernando was the soul of the trilogy.

 

Through his young, frightened eyes we saw:

• the brutality of war
• the collapse of hero worship
• the weight of betrayal
• the contradictions of leadership
• the burden of remembering

 

He was every Filipino youth forced to grow up by history’s cruelty.

 

But in Quezon, Joven is muted.

Dimmed.

Flattened.

As if the story no longer needs a conscience.

 

But Joven is crucial —

because he represents memory.

He represents witness.

He represents the youth who asks, “Totoo ba ito?”

 

To silence him is to silence an entire generation’s right to ask questions.

 

And perhaps that is why the film tries to soften him.

 

Because a strong Joven would disrupt the narrative.

 

**THE DAUGHTER WHO REFUSED TO LET TRUTH BE REWRITTEN:

 

NADIA HERNANDO**

 

But the story does not end with Joven.

 

Because somewhere in the trilogy’s lore stands Nadia Hernando,

Joven’s daughter

and the filmmaker who carries her father’s wound like a torch.

 

Nadia directed two versions of the Quezon film:

 

1. The Campaign Version

• sanitized
• heroic
• clean
• designed to please donors and descendants
• built for mass consumption

 

2. The “Real” Version

• darker
• uncomfortable
• raw
• complex
• honest to the contradictions of Quezon

 

This second film — the one that truly reflects history — is the film she made for her father,

for the truth he saw but could never fully speak.

 

Nadia becomes the youth reclaiming the narrative.

The daughter correcting the distortions imposed on the father’s memories.

The filmmaker defying politicians and historians alike.

 

She is Juliana, years from now —

refusing to let anyone step ahead of her in the line of truth.

 

FINAL REFLECTION

 

When the lights came back on,

I looked at my daughter.

The hurt from the ticket line still lingered in her eyes.

 

And I realized this entire experience — from the queue to the credits —

was a reflection of one lesson:

 

History, like dignity, is fragile.

It can be stepped on by those who feel entitled.

It can be rearranged by those who speak louder.

It can be rewritten by those who stand before us, even when they shouldn’t.

 

But not if we teach our children to see.

Not if we teach them to question.

Not if we teach them to remember.

 

And so I whispered to her — and to myself:

 

“Anak… hindi tayo papayag na isingit ng iba ang kwento ng ating bayan.”

 

Our heroes deserve truth.

Our women deserve dignity.

Our youth deserve clarity.

And our history deserves to shine

with a light that is proud, fierce, and unmistakably Filipino.

 ____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

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JUSTICE FOR A NATION BLED BY THEFT: A CALL BY THE IGLESIA NI CRISTO

 *Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope, PhD, EdD, DM

I am not a member of the Iglesia Ni Cristo, but I believe—and quietly admire—their deep economic and political concern for the Philippines. I do not share their doctrine, their rituals, or their sacred traditions. Yet when I saw their people gather—thousands upon thousands—under a sky that has witnessed too many of our wounds, something inside me softened, trembled, and awakened a longing I have carried for years:

the longing for a country that no longer breaks its own people.

 

You do not need to belong to them to feel the pain.

You do not need to stand in their chapel to understand the weight they carry.

Sometimes, being Filipino is enough—

because loving this country means accepting that it can break your heart again and again.

 

It began with the simplest scenes:

a mother shielding her child from the heat,

a father tightening the strap of his worn backpack,

an elderly man clutching a cardboard sign with trembling hands—

hands that were once strong, now frail,

yet still holding the truth more firmly than any politician ever dared.

 

And in between them were placards—

modest, aching, almost like prayers etched on fragile cardboard:

 

“Transparency, not Conspiracy.”

“Justice, not Politics.”

“Give back the money and jail the corrupt.”

 

They were not shouts.

They were confessions—

confessions from a nation that has been crying in silence for too long.

 

I am not INC.

But in that moment, as I watched them,

I felt like one of them—

not by membership,

but by heartbreak.

Not by doctrine,

but by the shared ache of wanting a country that does not steal from its own people.

 

For this was not a protest.

It was a lamentation.

A trembling, quiet lamentation—

a hymn of weary souls who, despite everything,

still believe this nation can be beautiful.

 

As the hours passed, I looked into their faces—

not angry faces, but wounded ones.

In their eyes, I saw stories:

the father juggling three jobs because public funds meant for his community were stolen,

the mother stretching coins because corruption stole the bridge that would have brought her closer to livelihood,

the young man who studies hard every day knowing that in a country ruled by thieves,

hard work alone is never enough.

 

And there, standing among them in my own reflections,

I whispered a question that ached through my entire being:

 

When did stealing from the Filipino stop being a crime?

When did corruption cease to be shameful?

When did betrayal become tradition?

 

I looked at them again.

They did not come with fists raised—

they came with wounds exposed.

They did not come with rage—

they came with faith.

A faith not in politics,

not in personalities,

but in the fragile hope that if they stand here long enough,

someone in power might remember

that the people they govern are not numbers, not votes—

but human hearts.

 

The placards no longer bore the phrase “Change the system,”

yet the longing for a better system was written everywhere—

in the old man whose knees shook but still stood,

in the mothers murmuring to their children,

“Anak, this is for your future,”

in the thousand quiet sacrifices of people who endure the sun

because the deeper burn is corruption itself.

 

At moments like this,

I realized something tender and almost tearful:

 

You do not have to be INC to cry with them.

You do not have to be INC to hope with them.

You do not have to be INC to feel the trembling weight of a million broken promises carried in their silence.

 

You only have to be Filipino—

a Filipino who still believes,

a Filipino who still hopes,

a Filipino who still dreams of justice that is not for sale.

 

As I watched them from the quiet distance of my own thoughts,

I felt the collective ache of a nation plundered too many times.

Money stolen.

Trust stolen.

Future stolen.

And the cruelest theft of all—

the theft of dignity.

 

“Give back the money and jail the corrupt”—

the words echoed like soft thunder,

a plea lifted gently to the heavens,

a quiet attempt to remind those in power

that the people they lead are not stones—

they are hearts capable of breaking.

 

These were not the words of rebels.

These were the whispers of people who have been hurt so deeply

that all they ask now is the simple right

to live without fear

in a country that does not devour its own children.

 

In the end, I remain not an INC member.

But in this moment, in this struggle, in this soft and trembling cry for a love of country that refuses to die—

I stand with them.

 _________________________________________

TRANSLATED TO FILIPINO

_________________________________________

HUSTISYA PARA SA BAYANG NILAMON NG PAGNANAKAW: ANG PANAWAGAN NG IGLESIA NI CRISTO

 

By Dr. Rodolfo John Ortiz Teope

 

Hindi ako miyembro ng Iglesia Ni Cristo, ngunit naniniwala ako—at tahimik kong hinahangaan—ang kanilang malalim na malasakit sa ekonomiya at pulitika ng Pilipinas. Hindi ko kapareho ang kanilang doktrina, hindi ko kabisado ang kanilang mga himno, ngunit noong nakita ko ang kanilang pagtitipon—libo-libong tao, sa ilalim ng kalangitang matagal nang saksi sa ating mga sugat—may gumalaw, may nanginig, may nagising na bahagi ng puso kong nangungulila rin para sa isang bansang paulit-ulit tayong sinasaktan.

 

Hindi mo kailangang maging bahagi nila upang maramdaman ang pait.

Hindi mo kailangang tumayo sa kanilang kapilya upang maunawaan ang bigat ng kanilang dalahin.

Minsan, sapat na ang pagiging Pilipino—

sapagkat ang umibig sa bayang ito ay ang maging handang masaktan ng paulit-ulit.

 

Nagsimula ito sa mga pinakasimpleng tanawin:

isang inang iniingatan ang anak sa init,

isang amang inaayos ang lumuwang na strap ng lumang backpack,

isang matandang lalaking mahigpit na hawak ang plakard,

mga daliring dati’y malakas, ngayo’y nanginginig,

ngunit mas matibay pang humahawak sa katotohanan kaysa sa sinumang pulitiko.

 

At sa pagitan nila—

mga kartong tila dasal na isinulat ng kamay na sanay na sa hirap:

 

“Transparency, not Conspiracy.”

“Justice, not Politics.”

“Give back the money and jail the corrupt.”

 

Hindi iyon sigaw.

Mga pag-amin iyon.

Pag-amin ng isang bansang matagal nang umiiyak sa katahimikan.

 

Hindi ako INC, ngunit habang nakatingin ako sa kanila,

pakiramdam ko isa rin ako—

hindi sa pagiging miyembro,

kundi sa sugat.

Hindi sa ritwal,

kundi sa kirot ng paghahangad ng bansang hindi tayo pinagnanakawan.

 

Sapagkat hindi lamang ito protesta.

Ito ay panaghoy.

Isang mahinang panaghoy, nanginginig, ngunit totoo—

awit ng libo-libong pagod na kaluluwa na, sa kabila ng lahat,

ay naniniwalang maaari pa ring gumanda ang Pilipinas.

 

Habang tumatagal, mas nakikita ko ang mga mukha—hindi galit, kundi sugatan.

Nasa mga mata nila:

ang amang tatlong trabaho ang kinakaya dahil ninakaw ang pondong dapat ay para sa kanyang komunidad,

ang inang pinaghahaba ang barya dahil ninakaw ang tulay na magdadala sana ng kabuhayan,

ang kabataang alam na kahit gaano siya kasipag mag-aral,

hindi siya ligtas sa korapsyong minana sa nakaraan.

 

At doon, habang nakikita ko sila,

tinamaan ako ng mga tanong na masakit, kalmado, at tapat:

 

Kailan pa nawala ang takot na magnakaw mula sa sariling bayan?

Kailan naging kultura ang korapsyon, hindi krimen?

Kailan naging tradisyon ang pagtataksil?

 

Tinitigan ko silang muli.

Hindi sila dumating na may galit—kundi may sugat.

Hindi sila dumating na may kamao—kundi may pananalig.

Isang pananalig na hindi tungkol sa relihiyon,

kundi sa marupok na pag-asang baka, kung tatayo sila nang matagal,

may isang nasa kapangyarihan ang maalalang tao ang kanyang pinaglilingkuran—hindi numero, hindi boto.

 

Hindi na nakasulat sa mga plakard ang “Baguhin ang sistema,”

ngunit dama mo ito sa bawat anino ng tao,

sa bawat titig na may pagod ngunit may dangal,

sa bawat inang bumulong sa anak,

“Anak, para sa kinabukasan mo ito,”

sa bawat Pilipinong nagtiis ng init,

sapagkat mas malalim ang sakit ng pagnanakaw ng pera

kaysa sa sikat ng araw.

 

Sa ganitong mga sandali,

may napagtanto akong banayad,

isang bagay na halos nagpaluha sa akin:

 

Hindi mo kailangang maging INC para umiyak kasama nila.

Hindi mo kailangang maging INC para umasa kasama nila.

Hindi mo kailangang maging INC para maramdaman ang pagyanig ng milyong nabigong pangako na dala ng kanilang katahimikan.

 

Kailangan mo lang maging Pilipino.

Pilipinong marunong umasa,

Pilipinong marunong sumampalataya,

Pilipinong marunong mangarap ng hustisyang hindi nabibili.

 

Habang pinagmamasdan ko sila mula sa malayo,

ramdam ko ang kirot ng isang bansang paulit-ulit na nilimas.

Ninakaw ang pera.

Ninakaw ang tiwala.

Ninakaw ang kinabukasan.

Ngunit ang pinakamasakit—

ninakaw ang dangal ng bayan.

 

“Give back the money and jail the corrupt”—

umalingawngaw na tila munting kulog,

isang pakiusap na itinataas sa langit,

isang huling pagsubok upang ipaalala sa gobyerno

na ang mga pinamumunuan nila ay puso, hindi bato.

 

Hindi iyon salita ng mga rebelde.

Ito ang bulong ng mga taong masyadong nasaktan

na ang hinihiling na lamang ay huminga nang walang takot,

at mamuhay sa bansang hindi kinakain ang sarili niyang mga anak.

 

Sa huli, hindi ako INC.

Ngunit sa sandaling ito, sa laban na ito, sa panaghoy na ito para sa pag-ibig sa bayan na ayaw mamatay—

kasama nila ako.

 

Kasama sa kanilang luha.

Kasama sa kanilang lakas.

Kasama sa kanilang tinig na humihingi ng hustisya para sa bayang ninakawan.

 

Dahil ang hustisya ay hindi dapat pribilehiyo.

Ito ay karapatan ng bawat Pilipinong

ninakawan—

ng pera,

ng dangal,

at ng simpleng pangarap ng bansang pumipili ng katotohanan kaysa kasakiman.

 ____

 *About the author:

Dr. Rodolfo “John” Ortiz Teope is a distinguished Filipino academic, public intellectual, and advocate for civic education and public safety, whose work spans local academies and international security circles. With a career rooted in teaching, research, policy, and public engagement, he bridges theory and practice by making meaningful contributions to academic discourse, civic education, and public policy. Dr. Teope is widely respected for his critical scholarship in education, management, economics, doctrine development, and public safety; his grassroots involvement in government and non-government organizations; his influential media presence promoting democratic values and civic consciousness; and his ethical leadership grounded in Filipino nationalism and public service. As a true public intellectual, he exemplifies how research, advocacy, governance, and education can work together in pursuit of the nation’s moral and civic mission.

VIEWS: 1.7M