By Christian R. Vallez “Vallez-san, have you written any screenplays?” “None yet, Direk.” The sensei, as I fondly called my long-time mentor Marilou Diaz-Abaya, had another filmmaker friend who was hoping to make a comeback and looking for a screenwriter and assistant director (AD). I had written a lot of stageplays in the past, scribbled some story concepts for movies, but I never really sat down and finished a full-length screenplay at that time. A portrait of Marilou Diaz-Abaya, taken by Sara Black She told me she’d loan me to her friend. This was before she made me her AD. “But I haven’t written any, Direk. I have never been an AD.” “Perfect! I’m throwing you into the ocean. Learn to swim!” I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I had been trained before by my other mentor, Paul Dumol, in writing stories, stageplays, and even screenplays, but I never really finished a complete screenplay project under him. (Years later, Dr. Dumol and I would collaborate on a screenplay, which I hope to direct eventually.) Also, I had zero experience with being an assistant director. Sure, I have directed a good number of stageplays. And I have worked as an intern for Direk Marilou, long enough for me to see how AD’s work. Still, I didn’t know what to do. So I asked two of her former ADs, Moises Zee and Allan Forte, to teach me. Meanwhile, I was panicking with the screenplay. The director had given me his pegs. He gave me full freedom with the story. That’s harder, I think, having too much freedom. So this freedom sort of paralyzed me. I got stuck. As the deadline drew closer, my anxiety grew stronger. I think the sensei took notice. She called me: “Pack your things. We’ll be gone for a week.” She asked me to drive her. We drove to Batangas, to her resort called Dive Solana. “I’m locking you up here. Finish your screenplay while I dive.”

This is a collaborative art. You collaborate with your fellow artists to deliver a single narrative. The director’s job is to show all his collaborators his creative vision and bring them all there. —Marilou Diaz-Abaya

Her house was a simple Japanese-style house at the edge of her resort, facing the sea. The view was perfect. I could see the sunset at Sombrero Island. She brought everything I needed, supplies, food, and even alcohol. During the day, she’d go out and dive the waters of Batangas while I spent hours typing my screenplay. She gave me her laptop—not loaned, she actually gave it to me. She told me she wrote many stories with it and it would serve me well. Over dinner, she would read my work, and give her notes. The following day, she’d go swimming or diving while I did my revisions. After a week, the screenplay was finished. “Beautiful, anak. This is beautiful.” I thanked her. I had a huge smile on my face. “Now, you are ready to write.” Wait, what? This is how Marilou Diaz-Abaya imparted her lessons to me—like a zen master’s riddle, a deliberately dissonant note, sometimes a playful joke, but always like a kendo strike, precise, well-timed, and wholly felt. For 10 years, which were her last 10, she adopted me not just as her pupil, but as one of her sons, worthy to receive the art and philosophy of the Diaz-Abaya film dojo. I submitted the finished script to her friend, my new boss, the director. He liked it a lot but he had some notes. It took me a week to work on the revisions before I sent it back to him. He had more notes. I continued to revise. Before we started shooting, I had 14 drafts of the screenplay (after I finished draft one at Dive Solana). During an online ad shoot for Marilou's film school Soon enough, filming started. Every other shooting day, the script would be rewritten. Dialogues were cut. Scenes were shortened. New scenes were created. Words were simplified. Other words were made complex. A lot of beats were deleted. New beats were inserted. On my days off, I would go to the sensei’s dojo to debrief. She required this of me so she could process my experience. I’d complain to her, cry to her, appeal to her: “My screenplay was being massacred, sensei! It’s not being shot as I imagined it to be!” The sensei calmly replied: “Haven’t I told you to leave your ego at the door? Who told you that this is your film? You serve at the pleasure of the director. While the director serves at the pleasure of the story. This is not about you.” “But Direk, the director and I might have two different visions.” “That maybe true. But this is not like your plays. You are not the author here. Here, you all collaborate to tell this single story. You may be the source of the story, but all of you—the director, prod designer, cinematographer, sound designer, scorer, actors, editors, the entire lot—are the authors. This is a collaborative art. You collaborate with your fellow artists to deliver a single narrative. The director’s job is to show all his collaborators his creative vision and bring them all there. If you are not going toward that creative vision, either he failed to communicate to you his vision, or you are not fit to be his general.” I paused to take a sip of my zen tea and considered. “You are still writing. Up to the moment your audience finishes watching your film and continues to talk about it over meals, you are still writing.” Then I realized what she meant when we were at Solana. Writing is rewriting. Rewriting is writing. And I am writing this story with fellow storytellers. “Now, go back to your team and continue writing.” Yes, sensei. I still am. X Vallez is a filmmaker, playwright, and poet. He served as Marilou Diaz-Abaya’s associate director for 10 years and taught with her in her film school in Antipolo. You can read his other anecdotes on his years with his sensei on FB through the hashtag #MLDAStories.